


Everybody Needs You

by moomintrollz



Series: ENY [1]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997)
Genre: Body Horror, COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY IGNORES BEFORE CRISIS AND DIRGE OF CERBERUS, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Child Soldiers, Ensemble Cast, Epistolary, Fake Science, Found Family, Gen, Human Experimentation, I KNOW THERE ARE A LOT BUT PLEASE READ MY TAGS LMAO, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Intrigue, Jenova Project (Compilation of FFVII), Materia (Compilation of FFVII), Mild Gore, Mild Shippy Content, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Not Canon Compliant, Optimism, POV Alternating, POV Outsider, Past Relationship(s), Politics, Revolution, SOLDIER Cloud Strife, Sentient planet, Sephiroth's (Compilation of FFVII) Terrible Childhood, Suspension Of Disbelief, Team as Family, Temporary Character Death, The Lifestream (Compilation of FFVII), The Power of Friendship and Magic and Big Swords, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Unreliable Narrator, Vignette, Warning: Hojo (Compilation of FFVII), Worldbuilding, Wutai War (Compilation of FFVII), basically what i mean when i say "unreliable narrator" is, bitch speaking of tags here's one for you -- my ass literally forgot palmer existed LMAO, fuck canon actually. my city now, hope i dont stretch that last one too far but ultimately im just vibing just enjoy it bro, not the first time time traveling, so some things may seem unclear. this is deliberate, some characters dont have the amnt of knowledge as some of their counterparts, vignette style, what immortal doesn't have multiple romances (comma) only some of them heterosexual? grow up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2020-10-18 21:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 109,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20645849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moomintrollz/pseuds/moomintrollz
Summary: “What have you been sent here to do?”He shrugs.“Save the world, I guess.”





	1. Nibelheim 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i play fast and loose with the timeline because writing this was an act of self indulgence i refuse to apologize for. i have never played before crisis or dirge of cerberus so **i will be ignoring those**. i love writing dialogue so this is dialogue heavy, if that isn’t your thing
> 
> title from frank ocean's [nights](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r4l9bFqgMaQ), which is a gorgeous song that i listen to often, but is otherwise totally unrelated to this. i'm just bad at naming things
> 
> https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/

**1.**

The midwife is unsettled by the fact that the newborn Strife child does not cry, even after his general health is confirmed, but she is tactful enough not to say anything about it.

He’s a small thing, born a month early to a mother a bit too young for comfort, but little Gjertude Strife just takes her baby in her arms and whispers a thank you, laying a kiss on his damp forehead. She doesn’t fight the helpers who scoop him up for cleaning, but she watches them keenly, even through the exhaustion setting into her eyes. 

“Do you have a name for him?” The midwife asks.

“Cloud,” she says. “I think Cloud suits him just fine. It’s so nice to finally meet you, Cloud.” 

It’s untraditional, especially for Gjertude Strife’s extremely traditional family, but is very much in character for an odd girl with odd aspirations.

“That’s a lovely name,” the midwife says. “I hope the two of you are happy together.”

**2.**

The first time Gjertude ever sees her son cry, she does not think he realizes he is doing it. 

They happen across a troupe of children poking at a pup in the town square, squirreled away from most inquisitive eyes. It is of popular opinion in Nibelheim that children are to be seen and not heard, to help around the house and then play outside when they aren’t needed. Often they are left unsupervised unless something especially grievous happens. Cloud has no friends and is content to spend his days helping her mend dresses and weed the garden. He’s a helpful and unobtrusive child, spends most of his days speaking to her in Old Nibel, and next to nothing to strangers, and is not prone to fits of emotion.

But he sees these children and rushes over with such a rage about him that Gjertude can only watch as he yells at them. His voice is high and shaky with tears, but there’s an unmistakable determination to the way he tells them to run along now, and that he knows who their parents are and will be knocking on their doors to tell them of their children’s behavior. A little boy laughs, incredulous, and then they’re all giggling in his face. A cry of protest rises when a child reaches out and he takes this opportunity to bite her hand, eyes flashing. It’s then that Gjertude intervenes, managing to pull her son under one arm and the whimpering pup under the other in the scuffle of confused bodies. 

“Oh, Ský,” she says, worryingly. 

He sniffles, and then jerks in her hold. One arm raises to messily scrub the tears from his face, and as she glances down at him the bewilderment is clear in his body language.

“I’m alright, mama.” He tells her.

“I think not,” Gjertude huffs. She catches the hangdog look on his face when he glances up at her, and immediately decides not to push it.

The pup, she finds later, is a Nibel wolf, and by then, the two of them are bonded so closely that she wouldn’t dream of separating them. A neighbor complains about her child being bitten, and Gjertude primly informs her that she wishes the thing had bitten down harder.

**3.**

Zangan accepts Cloud Strife as a student purely by accident. 

Tifa has told him a bit of the Strife boy—he with the high ponytail and the watchful she-wolf companion, who most of the time spoke in Old Nibel and was notorious for his eccentric mother. He was a wanderer, quiet, known to stare unabashedly. Therefore, it’s not entirely a surprise to find the boy skulking around his grounds early one morning, but what does surprise him is being addressed directly.

“Will you take me on as a student?”

“Do you have the money to pay for lessons?” Zangan asks, more curious than anything to see his reaction. 

The boy blinks at him and then says, “Yes. Can we start now?” 

He’s so bewildered that he says yes, and that is how he finds himself with a new student. Every other day, he instructs the boy while his wolf—who Zangan learns is named Freida—waits indolently in the grass for them to finish. Cloud pays on time, always, and always a little more than he needs to. There is no telling where the money is coming from, with his mother being a humble seamstress. 

At the end of each week, he instructs his two students to practice with each other, curious about their progress. Cloud is a sore loser, for all his relatively demure attitude, and is not above dirty tactics like throwing dirt into eyes and feinting during spars that have clearly defined rules. This lights a competitive fire underneath Tifa, and before long the two of them are fiendishly learning everything they can, if only to best each other. Tifa once tugs on Cloud’s ponytail, catching him off guard, and the next day he arrives at practice with his head shaved bald. 

It takes months for the defensiveness between them to melt into something like friendship, but when it does, it is a sight to behold. They are gangly, young, determined, sometimes loud, and he feels that one day they will take over the world.

**4.**

The first person Vincent sees in years is a child, likely no older than twelve.

He’s got bright blue eyes and a head of unruly blond hair. He is dressed head to toe in furs, and Vincent realizes with some surprise that a bow and quiver is strapped to his back.

“Hey,” the kid says, “Have a nice nap?”

Before he can react, a large furred creature is pressing its face into his coffin, snuffling and growling.

The boy says something sharp in a language Vincent has never heard before, but it sounds like an order. Sure enough, the wolf whines and steps back.

“Sorry, she must smell something weird on you. Probably all the dust from being in here so long.” 

The last of his haze fades, and Vincent sits up. “What are you doing in here, young man? It’s not safe. Especially not with me.” 

The boy absently scratches the pointed ear of his companion, who peers at Vincent with eyes that are clearly alarmed. Unsurprising, considering the circumstances. The wolf is large, standing just under the boy’s shoulder on all fours. When it opens its maw on a discontented whine, he can see row upon row of jagged teeth. 

“I’ve seen you a few times. Every time I opened your coffin, you never moved, so… Well, anyway. This place is safe. Probably safer than ShinRa intended.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re here. This is no place for children.” 

“Well. At first I wondered if you were okay. I told my mom about you, and she said I should let you rest until you were ready to wake up. Then I started coming back because I was curious about the place. Read some things. Destroyed some others. Are you hungry?”

“What?” 

“I said, are you hungry?”

He is. “I am.” 

“You should come let my mom feed you. If you want to come back here afterward, that’s okay.”

Vincent has not missed that his original question was ignored, and the longer his mind wanders, the more questions he has. Where is Lucrecia? Hojo? The child? Why is the manor open to any random citizen in this sleepy mountain town? Why are the demons bound to his soul so quiet in this moment?

The boy smiles at him, and in that moment it strikes Vincent how absolutely blank his expression was not a moment ago, and how kind his face looks now, in contrast. There’s something in his eyes that is familiar in the way returning home is familiar. 

“My mom makes a hearty stew this time of year.” 

“Ah.” 

“My name is Cloud. What’s yours?”

“Vincent.” 

Another smile, strangely knowing. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Vincent.”

The way out of the Manor seems to be second nature to this boy. As they leave, Vincent catches the faint smell of burnt wood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when cloud said "there's not a thing i _don't_ cherish" i felt that
> 
> this is perhaps a little silly bc it’s a homage to all the crazy tropes in ffvii time travel fics i read growing up, and to ffvii itself, because i love it dearly despite how ridiculous it is. so while i put a lot of heart into writing this, i wouldn't read too deeply into it. i just have final fantasy 7 brain rot. 
> 
> edit 19 april 2020: i see quarantine and the remake has all the girls reading. hello! hope you’re staying safe and healthy! to anyone new to ff7 or returning to it after a while, this was written before the remake and all the little details it adds. it also includes characters/story beats you might not have been introduced to yet. i know the game has been out for a while at this point, but i thought i’d include this warning for anyone mindful of spoilers! i’m also in the process of going through this and cleaning up mistakes i left behind, so please pardon my progress. reading my own writing is probably one of my least favorite activities in the world. i hope, however, that YOU enjoy my writing!! thanks for stopping by!


	2. Midgar 1

**1.**

Cloud has exposed Tifa to a lot of weird things, in the years they’ve known each other. 

When they first spoke, truly spoke, he’d shaken her hand, said it was nice to meet her, and then he’d swept his feet under hers to knock her off balance, pulling her into the most frustrating spar of her life. From then on, he’s constantly dragging her into little quests. It drives her father crazy, but she does her work and is otherwise well-behaved, so he can't find a good enough excuse to stop her. She finds out the hard way that Cloud earns most of his gil bothering fiends in the outskirts of town, or, worse, up in the mountains with nothing but Freida, a makeshift bow, and ill-gotten materia as his equipment. Sometimes he knocks on her door with bowls and has her taste test his dubious culinary experiments. Other times, he has her model for his mother's latest creations.

Tifa likes the quieter moments just as much: sitting by the fire and learning how to sew and knit while Ms. Strife tells them the old tales, slow reviews of Zangan’s more challenging katas, bowing their heads over Cloud’s concerning collection of materia and discussing how to use survival magic.

She’s been inside the ShinRa mansion so much that every single crazy conspiracy she'd ever believed about it seem like distant fantasy. There are no ghosts in ShinRa mansion, aside from whatever used to be the ashes of a tightly controlled fire in the basement. There’s also a man in the basement, so strangely dressed and deathly pale that she’d screamed to high heaven when she first saw him. (And that was the first time she’d ever seen Cloud laugh, doubled over and red-faced with his hand slapping his thigh, and it was such a nice sight that she laughed too, both out of relief and wonder, and that’s how she met Vincent Valentine.)

But Cloud asks her the weirdest thing of all on his fifteenth birthday, which they spend in his house, stuffing themselves full of his mother’s dinner. Even Vincent, who rarely leaves his roost and eats with even less frequency, has tucked himself into a comfortable corner with a bowl of soup, Freida settled by his feet.

“I’m joining SOLDIER. Do you want to move to Midgar with me?” 

The question cuts through their peaceful silence with harshness. Tifa levels an astonished look at Cloud’s mother, who gives her that tight-lipped not-quite-frown that’s become familiar by now, the one that says an argument has been had and she’s realized that Cloud’s made a decision regardless. Tifa is convinced Cloud’s mother is the only person on the planet he’s ever shown true deference to, and even she knows when not to fight him. They both know what Cloud is like. If he can’t find permission, he’ll do it anyway with no thought to seek forgiveness.

“It’s not clean,” he says, like he’s ever stepped foot off the mountain, “and it’s really hot, all the time. I don’t think you’ll like it at first.”

“So why do you want me to go, Cloud?” 

“Because you hate it here and I’ll be there.” 

And by now it’s an instinct to punch him in the shoulder for being presumptuous. That’s their friendship, play fighting and inside jokes and refreshing honesty. But when she realizes what she’s done, she gasps and apologizes to Ms. Strife.

“Oh, I wanted to do worse, love,” She says, eyes shining tellingly.

Cloud says, “Oh, mama,” and reaches out to run circles over her back. (She’s seen Ms. Strife do the same for him, like clockwork at the end of one of their adventures or even on his way back from the schoolhouse.)

“I’ll look after them.” Vincent says. Tifa can see that he’s giving Ms. Strife a look that is softer than his usual no-nonsense gaze, that he means it. 

“What about my dad?” Tifa asks.

Cloud says, “What about him? You’re sixteen.”

Of age, in Nibelheim, by some archaic law. Many people begin work at this age. Her father has even been asking her about anyone she’d be interested in marrying. 

There’s nothing he can do. It helps that he goes to bed early, though. She and her father haven’t seen eye to eye in years, but she loves him, and doesn’t want to tell him to his face why she’d rather not stay under his care.

She punches Cloud again, just for good measure. Ms. Strife laughs wetly. Tifa hugs them both, glad that she has the strength to squeeze tight.

So, a few days later, Cloud flashes what gil he has to the deliveryman who stops by every month with spirits for the tavern, and they pile onto the back of his truck after nightfall, Freida and Vincent placed like sardines under a tarp. Freida, who by turns cannot stand Vincent and craves his company, makes discontented noises the whole drive. 

Cloud, who is normally unflinchingly calm, is car sick all the way to Costa Del Sol. Then he is seasick all the way to the Eastern Continent. Tifa is at one point genuinely worried for his life, which she jokingly expresses to him, but he waves her off and says—half-delirious—that it’s okay and that he’ll just start over if he’s messed it all up this go-around. He maintains coherence in short bursts, enough to wave money at the people who will allow him to keep Freida with them and bypass entry gates.

He doesn’t ever stop shaking until they make land, but it’s like the bulk of his sickness passes the moment he’s rooted to the earth. He spreads his arms out and smiles at their little troupe. It’s genuine, for all that he’s visibly green around the gills. The ominous bulk of Midgar stands proud behind him, metal and industrious, even from their distance. 

“Home sweet bastion of capitalist evil.” He says, with a voice that sounds like nails are grinding in his throat. 

Because she’s tired herself and Cloud has fried what common sense she has left, Tifa says, “Home sweet bastion of capitalist evil!” and then they hug, laughing and rocking back and forth. 

It’s the second time she’s heard him laugh, and it’s just as sweet as the first, even though he’s in awful shape.

Vincent urges them along, but there’s a softness to his eyes that she likes. 

\--

There’s not much that can be done about Vincent’s claw, but they cut his hair, and his cape is stored in the modest living quarters they’ve secured at an inn in the slums. Cloud leaves to find recruiters after a week of settling, and then he returns with a ShinRa issued ID, and she knows for sure that this is a new chapter of their life. 

“I told them I was eighteen.” He explains.

Vincent sighs. “They don’t care that you aren’t.” 

"I was counting on that,” Cloud says.

“Does this mean I won’t be seeing you as much?” Tifa asks. She hates that she did the moment it’s out. 

Cloud takes her hand. “Probably. But I know you guys can do real good here. I’m gonna need someone on my ground team while I’m changing the world, you know?” 

She lets out an exaggerated gasp. “That was your plan all along? Why didn’t you join us for public speaking? You know you’re gonna have to speak the trade tongue here, right?” 

He shoves her, playful. “Shut it.” 

“You shut it,” she says, shoving him back. She’s smiling so that the tears welling up in her eyes don’t escape. 

“Hey. I’ll be here, as much as I can. This city won’t know how to handle us by the time we settle in here, you’ll see.” 

Tifa nods, for lack of anything better to say. It’s hard not to feel a little frustrated, because where does she go from here? The city is the busiest place she’s ever been in. She didn’t know so many people, smells, and sounds can fit into such a contained space. People don’t smile when they meet your eyes, and if they did it wasn’t out of courtesy. She’s strong, can protect herself and most importantly isn’t alone, but she does feel particularly small. In Nibelheim she was the mayor’s daughter, the town beauty, enjoying the added boost of mystery that came with spending time with the kid most people barely swapped words with. Here, she’s anyone else.

Cloud, sensing that she’s done talking, leaves her to her own devices. The next day, he shaves his head—a periodic ritual since one of their early spars taught him a lesson in practicality—and leaves for the compound above the plate. It’s a little while before she sees him again, but the daily cycle of the days sees her through.

\-- 

Vincent, who is half Wutaian, quickly makes connections with the growing immigrant population surrounding Wall Market. It’s easy to find work, from doing something as simple as moving stock to something as risky as taking down the fiends that occasionally pop up too close for comfort. It’s quick to see that what counts as fair is wildly different in Midgar. It’s hard to earn the complete trust of others, and trust should not be given easily. ShinRa’s people bully and snoop and enforce, and Tifa always wonders how Cloud thinks he’ll ever change the world like this. She works, and works, and works. She earns more money than she’d ever thought to see in her life, even being from a family that was comfortable by Nibelheim’s standards. She makes a space for herself.

Cloud stops by when he can, as promised. She feeds him, all but pries stories about SOLDIER from him. Sometimes they spar. He looks to her for advice on who needs what in their little corner of the slums, and before long, the two of them are known for being a source of respite.

She all but stumbles her way into AVALANCHE, keeps finding herself crossing paths with their leader, Barret, who operates in the same network of mutual aid that Vincent has ingratiated himself into. He asks, “Do you want to save the planet?” after they’ve scared some grunts away from intimidating the locals, and Tifa doesn’t even have to think very hard about saying yes.

**2.**

For Aerith’s entire life, there has been a strangely bright presence to the far west, like a part of the planet fell from the sky and decided to make its home where it lay. It has always been comfortably at the back of her mind, a constant in the way the north star is a constant, and she had thought little of it. 

She’s so used to it being where it was that she doesn’t notice until very late that it’s here in Midgar. And for a moment, she is shocked. Then she feels silly for ignoring the inevitability of the Planet.  
  
There are certain truths about her life that she reminds herself of to stay grounded:

The sun rises in the east and sets in the west, and the steel plate above will always block its rays regardless. Her flowers will always grow, while a rotating troupe of Turks watch from an unsubtle distance. And finally, while she is the last in every way that counts, she is not alone.

She meets the presence in her garden, and for a moment is disoriented by the way their bright aura thrums in her head like a trapped soundwave. The Planet speaks _ kin safe power the End _, triumphant and loud, bringing her to her knees. The dissonant hum is quieted by a warm hand on her shoulder, a shift so abrupt it leaves her ears ringing before the ambience of the city fades in. The stranger kneels beside her, loops an arm around her shoulders, and pulls her into a sorely needed embrace.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Aerith.” the stranger says. His voice is scratchy.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” She says. 

He’s running his hand up and down her arm, soothing and rhythmic. She feels a trickle of something running down the side of her face and absently swats at it, and gives a soft cry of alarm when she sees blood on her fingertips. The presence covers his hands with the sleeves of the plain white sweater he’s wearing (and isn’t that strange, a sweater in stuffy under plate Midgar?) and gently rubs her ears. When he pulls away, her blood looks almost comically bright on the fabric.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t stop to think about how you’re a little different from other people.” 

Despite herself, she starts laughing, punch drunk giggles hidden poorly behind her hand. He joins her. She looks up at him, taking him in. He’s giving her a tiny smile, and she notices with some quiet fascination a smattering of scars along his upper neck, the freckles dotting his nose, the dimple in his left cheek and not his right. His hair, closely shaven to his head, is a lighter shade of blond than his eyebrows. The thrum in her head begins anew and is once again stilled by his touch.

“You’re so young!” 

“Ah, I’m a little older than I look.” The smile turns rueful.

“What’s your name?” 

“I’m Cloud. I imagine Planet has been calling me, uh, something else. You can call me whatever works for you.” 

It’s such a strange conversation to be having with a stranger, especially when they’re huddled together in the dirt and rocking back and forth to soothe the bells tolling in her head. She has just met him, this presence, this End, but sharing this moment with him feels like second nature.

“What have you been sent here to do?” 

He shrugs. 

“Save the world, I guess.” 

**3.**

Cadet Strife is simultaneously the most polarizing and promising recruit they’ve had in years. 

For one, he is a good fighter, as evidenced by the notes on him. He’s all wiry muscle and single-minded concentration, bolstered by obvious training and his own creativity. For another, he is deeply intelligent, with an intrinsic understanding of necessary strategies and a near endless knowledge on any little thing. He has a worldliness that is hard to find in young recruits, who make up a bulk of recruits in the first place. Knowing things—knowing the world, and fiends, people, and just the rules of life—are vital parts of being useful SOLDIERS. However, all of these good qualities are juxtaposed by a near comedic surliness. Zack is amused to hear it. He is by all accounts abrupt and impersonal. Several notes from instructors amount to, “Bright, but must improve teamwork.” He’d gotten similar critiques as a cadet.

He works poorly with others, but he has potential. SOLDIER does not want to lose him to the Turks, who sniff out cadets with talent like bloodhounds, so Zack is being asked to step in and give him some guidance. 

“Sure, I can do that,” Zack says, trying his hardest to hold back laughter.

Lazard gives him a rueful grin. “You two aren’t so different.” 

Zack glances at the profile in his hands, glimpses this blank-faced kid with a bald head and oddly pale skin, and wonders how they could be even remotely similar. However, he is tactful enough to reserve his comments on the matter.

“I’ll bite, yeah! When do you want me to meet him?” 

“He has a free period today after interpersonal skills class. Why don’t you meet him them?” 

And Lazard hands him a copy of the Strife’s schedule, which also includes his email. Zack shoots him a quick introduction, explaining his interest and his goals, and the only response he gets is, “_ buy me lunch and we’ll talk. _” 

It’s a breathtaking display of irreverence, and absolutely grounds for punishment, but Zack knows a thing or two about being a gutsy kid, so he laughs and sends an affirmative reply. 

Lazard tells him, “Good luck,” and Zack is sure he’ll need it. 

When Zack meets Cloud Strife for the first time, the kid stares at him bug-eyed, like he’s seen a ghost. He’s already pale, but all the color leaves his face for one awful moment. It passes, but not quickly enough to escape notice.

“What, you don’t want lunch?” Zack asks, softly.

“Yeah, but we have to go under the plate. People up here don’t really know what seasoning is.” Strife says, recovering nicely. 

His hair has grown longer than his ID photo, and it’s spiking up at all kinds of odd angles. It lends an endearing boyishness to him that his photo lacked, which was likely the point. He’s content to let Strife lead him around, curiously taking in what information he can. He seems to be familiar with Midgar and its various twists, turns, pickpockets, and confusing public transportation systems. 

When they make it under the plate, Zack is fascinated by the way he interacts with others: 

People of all ages approach him for gil and he gives it without question, and in turn, they tell him the latest gossip. Inconsequential things—who in the slums is dating who, which restaurant owner is on freebie duty for the week (It’s Mrs. Nakamura, with the nice katsudon), that the flower girl with the nice braid has been asking after him, that they’ve seen some Touch Me frogs by the playground recently and could he clear them out so the children could play in peace?

And in this moment, it’s difficult to reconcile the standoffish cadet with the young man who takes requests of safety and security as if it’s routine. There’s still a distance about him, but he crouches so that he’s level with children, listens patiently to the rambling of nervous parents, and never gives out less than fifty gil to anyone who asks. (And that’s a mystery, in itself, because few cadets have that kind of spare money unless they’re from families of means, and Strife is absolutely not.) Zack was obsessed with the idea of being a hero as a kid—and, in many ways, still aspires to it—and it’s hard not to admire the heroism in this quiet support.

It isn’t long before Zack finds himself at a sleepy little bar made out of wood so old and creaky it looks green. There’s a burly man with a toddler in his arms, and what Zack initially assumes to be a dog turns out to be a _ huge wolf,_ which lazily rises onto all fours with a yawn as Cloud pets it. A crew of people greet him with raised drinks and loud voices, and a long-haired girl smiles at them from behind the bar. She’s got warm brown eyes and an overall warm countenance, dressed smartly in cargo pants and a simple white shirt. When Cloud greets her, it’s with a kiss on the cheek. He playfully shoves at the whining wolf when it burrows its snout into his upper thigh, like it isn’t half his diminutive size. It’s by far one of the most bizarre things Zack has seen all week.

“What can I get you?” The girl asks, resting her arms on the bar.

“He doesn’t get to choose, Tifa,” Strife says, as they take a seat. “Can we please have the closest thing to kjötsúpa you can make, this very instant?”

“You can have some if you’re patient, sure.” Tifa answers, smilingly unfazed by Strife’s worst traits. Zack likes her already.

Strife steeples his fingers, the very picture of a well-behaved youth. “This is me being patient.”

The wolf whines and places its head in his lap, looking up at him with doleful eyes. "Yeah, I missed you too, Freida."

“You’re an interesting kid,” Zack says, and he means it without a hint of irony.

“That’s one of the nicest things anyone has said to me since I came to this city.” Strife says, and he also sounds like he means it.

They talk for a little bit, discuss the city and classes and goals. Strife admits that he’d like to wield a large sword, and Zack isn’t sure about the wisdom of that. He’s solidly shaped, but he’s still got baby fat sticking stubbornly to his cheeks. It’s a strangely humanizing desire though, lessons some of the odd feelings Zack has, because what kid doesn’t want to swing around a huge sword? He may be strange, but he is still young. 

“So. Why do you wanna be a SOLDIER?”

This question does something odd. Changes the atmosphere, maybe, or just the kid’s mood, but there’s this look on his face like he’s been kicked.

“I have a promise to keep.” 

“Oh yeah? To who?” 

“Someone very nosy.” And there’s an inside joke, somewhere in the wry twist of his mouth. “Why did _ you _ want to be a SOLDIER?”

“I wanted to be a hero. Things have kinda changed, but. I mean. I still wanna help people.” 

Strife’s face shutters and for a moment it looks as though he might say something. He's interrupted by the bartender sliding two steaming bowls in front of them. It’s fragrant with spices, and the delighted look on Strife’s face shaves years off of his general aura. 

“Thank you,” he says, and then, happy as anything, begins spooning what must be boiling hot stew into his mouth with no hesitation.

Zack decides he’ll let his cool. “So, I feel like you can probably guess why we’re here. You’re losing your mind from boredom in class and you’re having a hard time getting along with your cohort.”

“Yup,” Strife says, a veritable cloud of steam billowing from between his lips. 

“Well, I was wondering if you’d want to train with me when you have free time. We can go over some more advanced swordsmanship, some tactics, get you better at talking to people. Does that sound like a good idea to you?”

“Yup,” He says, again, and there goes that inside joke again, that tone of voice.

“You know, at some point, you’re gonna need to figure out why you’re here,” Zack says, gently.

There are so many kids his age who would give anything to be in his position, to receive this offer that is all but a confirmation of the higher-ups’ intention to mold him. Zack hadn’t been able to contain the nerves that overtook him when he received an offer from Angeal. And yet, here the kid sits, looking tired and wry and painfully flippant, like the only thing that matters in the world is eating some homemade soup. 

“I know why I’m here, Lieutenant-General Fair,” Strife says, at length. It’s the first time the kid has addressed him directly, and it almost feels like a reprimand. “Trust me, I know.”

**4.**

Reno catches cadet Strife, inexplicably, climbing out of an air vent of a building in the slums that is ostensibly condemned. It is something he absolutely should know nothing about, on account of its status as a cache for paper records that are too risky to be held in online databases. 

He’s wearing street clothes and sensible boots, is so very small and young looking that he barely looks remarkable beyond a prime target for pickpocketing, and his cheeks are smudged with dirt. 

For a moment, Reno is convinced that he’s been sent to keep track of the wrong person, but then the kid makes eye contact with him and lets out a low curse. Every single person has some kind of defining characteristic, at least one, based on their appearance and their personality, respectively. Strife’s physical defining physical characteristic is his eyes, which somehow manage to broadcast complete and utter nihilism even through photos. He’s also, by every account, a little rude.

“Cadet Strife. ‘Sup?” 

And for a moment he still can’t help but think, this is it? 

This is the kid that’s got the higher-ups in a tizzy, has Tseng pouring over notes and grades and files? He’s short. He looks like the child he is, wiry and baby-faced even through the obvious strength in the set of his shoulders. 

It’s not uncommon for young people to lie about their age to join ShinRa’s para-military organizations, even though the enlistment age is eighteen. It’s an open secret. Recruits know it, higher-ups know it, and everyone lets it slide because ethics have a slippery quality when it comes to ShinRa Electric.

Cadet Strife’s eyes crinkle in an uncomfortable smile. “Hey.”

“You’re in a restricted area, dude.” 

“What are you, a cop?” Strife snaps.

And _that’s_ a stupid question. Throws Reno for a loop, makes a laugh bubble up in his chest. And though he allows it to peter off naturally, he watches some of the tension drain from the kid’s shoulders and realizes that may have been deliberate.

Strife stuffs his hands into his pockets. He’s wearing a sweater underneath a short sleeved shirt, even though it’s always unbearably hot under the plate. 

Though Rude is in the habit of berating him for his propensity to chatter, Reno knows how to hold on to a silence. Let it settle, until you can see the people around you get uncomfortable and start to fidget, or even make some noise of their own. Cloud Strife does none of these things. He watches Reno back.

“You searching for some hot gossip?” Reno ventures, tapping his nightstick on his shoulder like a suggestion. 

"Yeah,” Strife says, “But the fishwives aren’t that talkative today.” 

Good. Tseng had been preemptive, then. Reno will only believe the attention he's garnered is deserved if he can make anything out of the scraps left behind in those reports.

“Aw, that’s too bad, bro.” 

The building he’d exited is tucked away but not particularly hidden. Plain sight theory, with a little bit of the healthy and reasonable fear most citizens have of ShinRa authority keeping them from peeking. Most people walk on by. Reno notices that some children catch sight of Strife and brighten, making as if to approach him. Strife shoots them a tight-lipped, wide-eyed look, curiously not unlike the silent censure of a parent. When they notice Reno the color drains from their little faces and they scurry away.

“Well, don’t let me keep you.” Reno says. 

The kid makes to leave, and Reno stops him with his nightstick resting firmly on his collarbone. The look that this gets him contains a near unreasonable amount of venom.  
  
“Word of advice? You gotta earn bein’ cocky around here. People got their eyes on you, you feel?” 

Face blank, the cadet smacks Reno’s nightstick away with one quick, harsh movement, and then stalks off.

\--

Later, Tseng steeples his fingers and says, “The SOLDIER cadet contacted me directly to let me know that Mayor Domino has been having unauthorized correspondence with the politicians out east.”

Reno puts his feet up on Tseng’s desk, because he knows he’s a favorite and will get away with it, despite the gimlet-eyed look it earns him. 

“You don’t say? Thought that case was a dud.” 

“Yes, most interesting.” 

“You want him for the test or something?” Reno hedges.

Tseng lets out a low hum, the closest he’ll ever get to openly expressing displeasure. “We’ll have to speak to Lazard and Sephiroth.” 

Reno makes a noise of sympathy. Arguing over recruits that show promise is always a point of bitter contention between their two programs, despite the fact that the ShinRas have ultimate veto power over decision making and if Tseng really pushes, Rufus will intervene. Cadets are a dime a dozen, and the regulation army is always growing, but weeding out those who show genuine promise is a tedious process. 

It’ll be an issue, but what can they do? 

“You understand that you’ll be responsible for him if the recruitment process begins.” 

And there are so many things Reno would rather do than contend with a prickly teenager with an attitude problem. Like chew some rocks, or walk under the plate barefoot until he needs a renewal of his tetanus shot, but even he knows when not to push his limits. So he takes his feet off Tseng’s desk and says, 

“Ain’t that just the way.” 

He knows how Rude felt now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this marks the end of my pre-written chapters, though i do have the rest of this planned out. i'm a stressed college student currently applying for grad school, so i try to write as time and patience allows. i hope you'll understand. thanks for reading!
> 
> (edit 26 november 2019: intended for zack's rank to be lieutenant-general, not lieutenant. after all the times i've read over this thing you think i would have caught that lol. so yeah anyways zack is a lieutenant-general)


	3. Interlude 1

Some of the cadets are convinced that Strife is a danger to them. 

Luxiere has seen the kid do strange things. He’d once thumbed the curvature of a materia, setting it alight with no incantation and seemingly no concentration at all. He’ll shave his head at the drop of a hat, especially after someone comments on it as it grows out in those odd spikes. He handles guns with efficiency that he’d explained away as skill with hunting, but who is using assault rifles to hunt, especially in a poor backwoods town?

The cadets’ reasoning, however, is what has the SOLDIERs in Luxiere’s unit helpless with amusement: he’s apparently _ too mean _ to be of any use. That’s rich, coming from a group of mostly children fresh out of high school who trade chipped shoulders and inferiority complexes like new clothes every morning. It takes time for teamwork to build, especially in a program like ShinRa’s, which relentlessly fast-tracks one towards readiness to serve while swiftly discarding the unfit. There’s merit in the complaint, of course there is. By now, Strife is notorious among the SOLDIERs who are observing the progress of their potential coworkers. Many of them are keeping track of Lieutenant-General Fair's work with him, and they are deeply amused by his churlishness. But despite his reputation, no one can deny he’s a quick study, applies critique with no complaints--overall, a dream to teach.

“I just don’t see it,” Zack says, over drinks. He gives a little half-shrug of the shoulder, but Luxiere can see that he’s hiding a smile behind his beer. “He’s awkward, yeah. Standoffish. But I can’t say I’ve been on the receiving end of him being, um, _ mean _.” 

There’s a hint of hilarity in his voice towards the end of his sentence, and it sets the rest of them off into laughter. 

Zack fixes Luxiere with a friendly look. “You’re one of his instructors, right? What do you think?” 

Luxiere smiles. Thinks about how the last time he’d spoken to Cloud Strife, the kid had given him a look that was maybe one degree of separation from that of a coeurl’s distinctive glare. Thinks about how he’d had a grip on his practice sword that was too tight, too intimately competent to not be intimidating. Thinks about how he’d muttered an acknowledgement of Luxiere’s praise through lips tight with poorly disguised disapproval. 

“I can see him having a mean streak,” Luxiere allows. 

This gets him interested noises. Zack’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. 

“Yeah?” 

“It’s nothing so serious,” Luxiere laughs, and it sounds fake even to his ears, “Just that he’s frustrated with the kids in unit, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he snapped on them in private.”

Kunsel groans, runs a hand through his hair. “That’s all of us, though, man. These newbies are getting so soft.”

“They’ll learn soon enough. Maybe they should take a page out of shortstack’s book.” Another SOLDIER pipes up, some up and coming Third Class who has failed to get a promotion for the second year in a row.

Zack snorts.

“What’s funny?” The guy asks. 

Zack waves a hand. “Nothing. It’s just that Cloud would tell you that him being short just means he’s closer to your kneecaps, or something.” 

Their little group once again dissolves into laughter. Their waitress brings them another round, by now used to bringing round after round for SOLDIERs, who must drink a considerable amount to enjoy a buzz. Zack winks at her, making her cheeks flush prettily as she walks away.

“Okay, this is ridiculous,” Kunsel guffaws, “how is _ that _ not a little mean?” 

Zack splays his hands wide in a conciliatory gesture. “It’s just that it’s _honest_! He's such an opportunistic fighter. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the kid say something that wasn’t true! Sometimes I wonder if he even knows he’s putting people off.” 

Luxiere thinks he probably knows. You don’t get as far as he has without learning a thing or two about manipulation. 

Kunsel whacks Zack companionably on the shoulder. “Here’s hoping Angeal’s temperament rubbed off on you.” 

Here’s hoping, Luxiere thinks, ruefully taking a drink.


	4. Midgar 2

**1.**

When Angeal expresses interest in sitting in on one of his training lessons, Zack begs him not to make a big show out of it. 

They’re settled in Sephiroth’s living room, enjoying a late-night dinner. The man himself is passed out in his bed after a long day in Hojo’s labs, but them bullying their way into Sephiroth’s space is nothing new. Genesis had been the first to get a key. Sephiroth has not moved since he earned the money to stay in his modest apartment at the tender age of sixteen. Even after his pay rose enough to afford him every annoying luxury that upper-plate Midgar has to offer, he’d stayed put in a quieter place tucked into a community that had regular security. As such, the two of them have not stopped monopolizing his free time since. Sephiroth has never been able to express himself very well, but Angeal knows that he appreciates their company. He would not suffer it otherwise. 

“Don’t be sitting in the room when we come in, _ please _don’t ask him a bunch of questions. Just come in while we’re focused. I’m afraid he’ll clam up. We’ve made real progress over the past few weeks..” 

Angeal snorts, resting his chin in his hand. “Wow, Zack. You have so much faith in me.” 

“It’s for the best,” Genesis sniffs. “You’re insufferable on a good day.” 

But being obnoxious is how Genesis shows affection, so he’s not worried. Sure enough, when he turns a tired look his way, he earns a smile. It’s a tired one. Zack lets out a stifled laugh, and the smile widens into something gentler. 

Early in their lives, Angeal learned the hard way not to push Genesis when he’s not in one of his kinder moods. He returns the smile and gives Zack his full attention.

“Okay, Zack.” 

“You’re gonna love him. He’s got a lot of determination in that scrawny body.” 

“Sounds familiar,” Genesis snorts. 

Zack laughs, forever good-natured. 

Feeling a swell of pride, Angeal clasps a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done really well for yourself, Zack. Keep it up.”

Zack rubs the back of his neck. He’s not the same boy that marched into practice with unfounded confidence. He’s grown, tempered a bit. The SOLDIER program is better for having him. 

\--

As promised, Angeal quietly makes his way into the training room Zack has reserved about an hour into their scheduled block of time. Immediately, blue eyes zero in on him. 

This is a mistake. Zack exploits his momentary distraction to knock his practice sword from his hands with one clean, powerful sweep.

“Cloud, meet General Hewley. Watch yourself. Whatever you’ll be facing out in the field won’t wait for you to stop and think.” Zack says, gently. 

And Cadet Strife, his gaze still trained on Angeal’s face, frowns. It’s obvious he’s trying his best to contain an outright scowl, but the rough set of his jaw is hard to miss. 

“You didn’t ask me if this could happen.” 

“Do you really want to stop?” 

“Of course not!” Strife seems insulted at the suggestion. 

“So pick up your sword.” 

Cadet Strife pauses for a second. Runs the palm of one gloved hand restlessly over where his pale nose is reddening with displeasure. Then, the excess tension drains from his body in a stunning display of composure. His face is almost as professionally blank as Sephiroth’s. He retrieves his sword, falling into a stance that looks well-practiced.

They begin anew. Zack can never turn off his charm. He praises Cloud for the good moves he makes, and there are many. He anticipates feints, fills in the blank spaces Zack leaves behind with advantageous attacks of his own. His positioning is open, but not so open that his weak areas are open to the air. He gives little half-smiles when Zack appreciatively notes his successes. 

Angeal quickly notices that he’s overestimating his reach. He’s a gangly thing even through his diminutive height, still growing into his body, and he’s moving with his sword like it should be much larger than the carbon ShinRa issue practice swords. He listens intently when Zack calls them to a stop to caution him against something, asking questions that are thoughtful and useful. Should he adjust his weight to the other foot between swings? (Only when he’s done something that favored one side over the other and requires some overcorrection.) He’s short--how can he accommodate for someone with much longer legs in this or that situation? (He needs to work on his speed. It doesn’t matter how much bigger the enemy is if he is faster and can clear a set space faster than they can.) Would it make sense to use materia to slow someone down in close quarters? (Only if he’s got Barrier equipped or is confident that he can withhold the blowback. “And you aren’t,” Zack tells him, firmly. “So don’t try.”)

Towards the end of their time, Zack calls for them to put their weapons away and review. He kicks the cadet’s feet wider apart, saying, “Cloud, you were killing me about this. I didn’t say drag your feet. I said try to cover more space when you move.” 

He fussily adjusts the kid’s position, rotating shoulders and arms. Then he plants one foot on the ground to rotate from, lifting the other as he moves, so that it only makes contact with the ground when he rotates to meet it—not unlike doing a left or right face in marches. 

“Make sense?” 

Strife shifts restlessly. “Sure does. You want me to stretch my bones, too, Lieutenant-General Fair? Should I get some surgery to add more pieces to my spine? ” 

“Har de har. Funny, aren’t you,” Zack mutters, but Angeal can see that his eyes are bright with amusement.

“I’m hilarious.” Strife tells him, deadpan.

“You’re a problem.” Zack sounds fond.

“Sure am.” Strife says. 

Zack groans, crossing his arms. There’s silence between them. Then, Strife snorts inelegantly. This earns him an answering snicker, and then they’re giggling a bit like school children, and Angeal feels grief for the youth that ShinRa is stealing from them. A smile and a laugh transform’s Strife’s face completely, and Zack is not as good at hiding his darker moments as he’d like to think he is.

“Good job today, kiddo.” 

“You did alright, I guess.” 

Zack playfully shoves him towards his bags in the corner of the room, telling him to pack up and return his equipment. “And come back to say hi.” 

At this, Strife once again turns that piercing gaze on Angeal. Angeal stands and approaches them. “That was good work you did today, Cadet. Thank you for being a good sport.” 

“Thanks for watching.” The cadet says, courteous. The blankness of that face reminds him achingly of a young Sephiroth, so at war with himself and what Hojo wanted of him that most days he chose to bury his thoughts on both all together. 

He hopes, at least, that this young man has more room to sort that out.

“What do you think?” Zack whispers to him, as Cadet Strife begins wrapping up.

“He’s got potential. He also has an attitude.” Angeal answers.

Zack sighs. “He does. He’s a sweet kid, really. It’s just. Underneath onion layers. A whole lot of ‘em.” 

“He could be amazing with a sword. I think you might want to talk to him about something a little less heavy duty, though? Maybe a rapier, like Genesis?” 

“That’s what I’ve been telling him. Something like that would be a good focus for magic. He’s really good with materia. Crazy good for his age, actually. But he wants something like your sword. Can you believe that? It’ll take years of mako until he can even lift it, bar some crazy adrenaline rush.”

Angeal laughs. “You forget you were in pretty much the same spot a few years ago.” 

Zack elbows him. “Shut up.” 

Chuckling, Angeal crosses his arms as Strife returns to them. “Keep up the good work, Cadet. I hope to call you a coworker by this time next year.” 

At this, Cadet Strife shoots Zack a quick glance, like he isn’t sure what to do with the words that have been laid before him. 

“Don’t look at me! That’s all you, bud.” 

Cadet Strife gives a one-armed shrug, for once at a loss for words. Zack entraps the kid in a headlock, the knuckles of his free hand digging into the short spikes on his head. Strife endures this treatment with a blank look Angeal’s way. He’s never seen this amount of calm from a cadet in the presence of first class SOLDIERS. It’s fascinating. He bids them farewell, thoughts racing.

\--

When they reconvene for their weekly dinner, Zack looks desperately hang dog. Genesis takes one look at him and laughs in his face. The tiredness is still there in the set of his eyes, but he looks lighter than he did last week, somehow. Angeal is curious, but unsure if questioning things will end in an argument, as they often do these days. 

“Some pretty young thing refuse to go on a date with you?” He teases. 

He’s fixing a plate of pleasant-smelling Wutaian. As Sephiroth sinks down onto his usual spot on the couch—the cushion by the arm rest, so he can hang indolently off the side—Genesis shoves it into his hands. Sephiroth lets out a customary noise of complaint, but folds quickly when Genesis hisses impatiently and says, “Just eat, you oaf.” Hojo has not been kind to him. The turn of a new month always means day after day of tests, “improvements” on ShinRa’s perfect weapon.

“No. My cadet’s being courted by the damn Turks.” Zack moans, tugging at his hair. 

Sephiroth frowns. “They’re doing this right before the end of this round of instruction for the cadets. The holiday is soon, and they’ll have to declare. When is the Turk exam?” 

“No idea,” Zack answers.

“That’s probably on purpose.” Angeal tells him. 

This gets him another despairing sound. 

“Which Turk sought him out?” Genesis asks, spooning all the leftover fried rice into a bowl, because he knows no one will protest.

“_Reno_.” 

Genesis sneers. 

“I _ know ._” 

Sephiroth rests his forehead on his knuckles, closing his eyes briefly in a pained silence. “Did no one inform you? Did your trainee have to tell you?” 

“Yeah, and he seemed like he was scared to do it. That’s bad. Cloud never hesitates to say _ anything_. I hope they aren’t threatening him.” Zack fusses over his food, unable to school his expression.

It’s a fair assumption. Angeal has only met Cadet Strife once, and it’s hard to imagine the focused young man, eager to soak up what knowledge he could while also getting the last word, would ever mince words.

“That’s against protocol, Zackary. All relevant authorities in the SOLDIER program are to be notified when the Turk initiative has their eyes on a cadet. I’ll look into it when I find the time. For now, make sure that you remind Cadet Strife of the opportunities SOLDIER has to offer him.”

“No way, Sephiroth. You’ve got too much on your plate right now. I’ll go talk to Lazard.” 

It’s very telling that Sephiroth doesn’t argue, silently tucking into his food.

“Do you think he was hesitating because he might be considering it?” Genesis asks.

“Please don’t say that!” Zack cries. “You’re giving me angina!”

“Now there’s an exam word, Fair. Been studying for your student? Boring the poor boy to death?”

Angeal only just manages to stop them from flinging food at each other.

\--

The next few weeks pass in a tense sort of haze. Hollander and Hojo are engaged in another one of their science cold wars, and the three of them feel the brunt of it in consequence. 

The effectiveness of mako treatment reaches a threshold eventually. It takes years to reach. Most people will never see it in their lifetime. But for the three of them, who have been subject to it since before their births, it is in sight. Angeal is convinced that no living thing was ever meant to have so much mako running through their veins. He shudders to think of what else might be in there, too. 

He has decided that he will say nothing of what it does to him. Genesis and Sephiroth, though they will never admit it aloud, look to him for direction in many things that do not have to do with their work. They may not always listen, but he has their respect and their friendship. He will not tell them how his thoughts sometimes turn to the worst of things with abrupt finality, how attempts to get some sleep typically end with him locked in place as apparitions dance at the edge of his vision, how sometimes he stares down at the swirling depths of a materia and wonders what using it indiscriminately might feel like.

The bulk of Sephiroth’s coping skills is sleep, always. They’d first witnessed it as teenagers, half afraid that he might be dead. He’d been awake and determined to face the next day early in the morning. It’s still scary to see him like that, burrowed under layers of covers and his own strangely colored hair. Angeal will never adjust to it. It almost doesn’t make sense to see Sephiroth not in motion.

When Genesis is tired he sinks into a familiar state of half-delirium, always up, always wanting to do something. It’s not uncommon to find that he has read Loveless cover to cover, made rounds to Lazard’s office to beg for extra assignments, scared some cadets half to death by observing them from afar, and then completed weeks’ worth of paperwork just to have something to focus on. He is wired until he isn’t, will steal a few hours of rest typically in his office, and then repeat the whole process again. 

They are disasters. If the cadets knew that they’d have to endure something similar if they ever made it to first class, he’s sure they’d reconsider even coming to Midgar. 

Zack updating them on his career is a bright spot for Angeal. There is very little he is proud of, but helping shape Zack into a well-adjusted adult is one of them. He’s being sent out on increasingly important assignments both in and out of the city, is likely due for a promotion and a pay raise, and he’s so happy to have someone to work with. His quiet pride in Cadet Strife’s successes come as often as his good-natured frustration over his rough spots.

“So you’ve confirmed with your trainee that he’s at least speaking with the Turks?” Sephiroth asks, one evening. 

Tonight they are in Angeal’s office, discussing paperwork that requires all of their signatures in one way or another.

Zack puts his face into his palms, a pen sticking out from between the fingers of each hand. (He’d been irritated when Angeal included ambidexterity in their training, but it always comes in handy in the strangest ways.)

A forlorn “uh huh” filters out. If Cadet Strife knew how dramatic he can be, their training would probably look a lot different than it does. 

“I spoke with Lazard about it and he said to at least give it time. You know how it is with the Turks. All Tseng has to do is make one complaint and then Rufus is bearing down on everybody. He’s got to believe that a refusal is genuine and not because the kid’s being pressured.” 

Genesis scoffs. “This company is run about as well as a chocobo ranch.” 

“No, a chocobo ranch probably has more coordination.” Angeal sighs, leaning back into his chair. 

Sephiroth tucks his hair behind his ears. It’s a rare display of frustration, the remnant of a fidgeting habit Hojo had scared out of him with the help of private instructors. “I’ll fight it, Zackary, if you want me to.” 

“No,” Zack groans, uncovering his face. “Really, don’t. Cloud _ wants _ to be in SOLDIER. Angeal knows about this already, but have I told you guys about how much he wants to use a huge ass sword? And he won’t say it, but he really looks up to me. I know I have his respect. I just—don’t get why he would want to even talk to them, especially Reno.”

Genesis furrows his brows. “If you’re so confident that he won’t jump ship, why are you so concerned? Maybe he’s just weighing his options.”

“It just gives me a bad vibe. I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. But, like. Cloud has friends under the plate. You know how the Turks are under there. I think I’d be a little more decided in his place.”

Angeal reaches across the table to grab Zack’s shoulder. He jostles the young man in place until he’s rewarded with a tired little smile. “Keep doing what you have been. I’m sure it’ll all turn out just fine.”

**2.**

Marlene took to Tifa’s childhood friend immediately. She’d asked a gauntlet of questions about the SOLDIER program that he answered with patience, and always in a way that was easy enough for her to understand. Then the kid had looked to Barret and said, “I’ve got answers for you, too, if you need them.” 

And that—that had been disquieting. 

Barret knows that ShinRa has its eyes on the slums. You have to keep your eyes on the little people when you’re trying to hold them under your boot. Some people he’d considered dear friends have turned out to be plants, whether they knew it or not, for information. He’d never been approached outright in that way, but he trusted Tifa and Tifa was good at reading people, so he’d nodded, said that maybe he’d take him up on it.

Over time, his suspicion that Cloud Strife is a spy all but diminishes, but that does little to ease the other worries that arise. Cloud gains as reputation in the slums in the same way as Tifa and their quiet babysitter does: he helps make life a little less awful. He escorts sex workers safely to and from clients if asked, routinely sweeps the Sector 6 park so the kids can play in peace, and is often seen selling flowers with the church girl from Sector 5. In Wall Market, he runs errands and trades information for gil or small-time jobs, strangely efficient at the most random of tasks. When he has time, he spends hours playing with Freida, his pet wolf (who Tifa keeps confined to the basement as much as possible, regret in every line of her body), running paces with her, throwing things for her to catch, wrapping himself around her neck and breathing her in with his eyes closed.

He and Tifa can find humor in almost nothing, and on a slightly cooler day they go outside and spar, no holds barred, much to the amusement of the townsfolk. When they’re done, they retire for soup, and exchange stories. The tired slope of their young shoulders reminds Barret uncomfortably of Corel. Corel kids had been forced to grow up faster than they deserved too, and he can tell these kids have been through similar paces. 

What worries Barret is that the kid can’t be read unless he wants to be. It’s the skill of someone much older than fifteen.

So Barret catches him on an off day and says, “What information you got for me?” 

Cloud raises an eyebrow. “Is this a test?” 

“And if I said yes?”

“Well, I didn’t study, so…” 

“Man, get on, with your little aggravating ass.” 

This gets him a rare grin. 

Tifa is watching them as she cleans her glasses. Marlene is sat in one of the barstools helping as best as she can, watching Tifa with a determined little eye each time.

Cloud shrugs a shoulder, and then props his chin on his knuckles. “ShinRa is… sick. You trace any problem on this planet in, like, the last half-century? And some way or another it all starts with them. I’m too young to have stopped their rise, but I don’t think it’s too late to keep them from killing the world.”

Barret can’t contain a laugh. “What do you think just _ you _ can do to stop that?” 

“What do you think just _ AVALANCHE _ can do to stop that?” The kid retorts. “You think you guys aren’t under the magnifying glass? ShinRa’s like a cat toying with a mouse when it comes to your people. I don’t know how you think change will happen, but it’s not gonna come around by getting civilians caught in your crossfires. Which is, you know. What happens when you don’t plan well.” 

It grates, to hear this from someone who barely reaches Barret’s elbow on tip-toe. The only thing keeping him from taking the kid to task is the fact that Marlene is sitting not three feet away from them, and Tifa is giving him a look of warning. 

“You wouldn’t understand.” Barret settles on, worrying at the the sensitive place where his arm ends and the gun begins. 

“You’re right, I don’t. But I like you, Barret. What questions do you have?” 

Cloud, who knows how to hack and is a deft hand with lock picking tools, and is slowly uncovering a damning series of jobs local and nationwide.

The next few hours pass in a blur of information. At some point, Tifa and Marlene finish their work. Marlene is bitter about being sent to bed, but she extracts a kiss from all of them on her way up, tells him that she hopes he’ll join her soon. Tifa lays her head on Cloud’s shoulder as they talk, occasionally interjecting with questions that steer the conversation into territories that Barret wouldn’t have considered. 

The church girl is a person of interest, but Cloud doesn’t know why yet. The Turks watch her on rotation, which is rare. Their highly specialized skills usually call for their work elsewhere. The Science department is probably conducting human experiments. (This does not surprise Barret—what does surprise him is that the status quo has settled comfortably on a place where no one bats an eyelash at the possibility of such a crime happening under their feet.) Again, Barret is assaulted with a number of things that would be chilling in a perfect world: the slaughter of rival politicians, Mayor Domino’s status as a figurehead secretary, the deliberate placing of opportunity out of the hands of anyone the president deemed potentially troublesome, ShinRa’s scarily detailed protocols for keeping a population complacent and frightened. 

It would be compelling evidence in most courts, if most courts had managed to escape corruption. They have not. 

“There’s more where that comes from. I’ll share it as I find it. Can I call in a favor from you later?” Cloud asks, eyes hard. “It’ll be quiet.” 

Barret needs to keep AVALANCHE alive now, more than ever. “Yeah.” 

They shake on it. The kid’s grip is a lot stronger than he thought it’d be.

\-- 

Cloud meets the members of the fledgling AVALANCHE initiative over time. When he’s introduced as an informant from ShinRa, most protest, which Barret understands. He is still their leader, however, so no one protests having him sit in on meetings for very long, despite their irritation with him. He shuts down ideas at random. They always regret it when they ignore him. It would look like a set up if he didn’t always come with such useful information.

“No, someone will die,” Cloud says, of a plan to disrupt a Regulation army checkpoint. “Word of advice? ShinRa is always more well-equipped than they let on. Let it pass. I can make sure people are okay afterwards.” 

“Unwise.” Is all he says about the possibility of asking business owners to keep an eye on SOLDIERS that come under the plate. (They don’t listen. Checkpoints increase.)

“Bring Vincent.” He tells them, over and over. Barret eventually caves. The only image he has of Vincent is of someone well-loved by safety net groups of the slums, and as somewhat of parental figure for Tifa and Cloud—two stubborn teenagers who rarely defer to anyone once they’ve had their mind set on something.

“How’d you put up with ‘em, man?” Barret asks him. 

Vincent surprises him by saying, “Years of isolation made it easier to adjust quickly. Thank you for trying. They mean well.”

He is a big help. His eyes do not have the same mako glow as a SOLDIER’s, but there is a glow. Barret decides that it’s for the best not to ask questions. He is quiet and good with a gun, and that’s all that really matters.

\--

Seeing Cloud interact with a Turk is what brings Barret’s earlier suspicions rushing back to the forefront. It’s a brief thing, something he’d might brush off as bullying with anyone else. The Turk—red-headed, cocky, young—grabs him by the arm as Cloud’s seeing the church girl through the market. Cloud gives him a look that could kill, and though he pointedly shifts so that he’s blocking the church girl from view, the tension in his face softens into its regular moue of quiet disinterest as he processes who’s in front of him. 

That’s just the thing. No one would dare give a Turk a look like that, especially not here. Barret knows Cloud has an issue without authority, but this is just asking for a beating or days of convenient bad luck.

They exchange a few words, which ends with the Turk rolling his eyes. Cloud shakes his head firmly. The Turk dips into a theatrical bow of deference and slinks away, the crowd parting for him. The church girl gives him a shaky but playful push, and Cloud gives her his full attention once again. 

It should be nothing. It’s not uncommon. Barret almost considers dropping it, because he’s been a true ally. But he’s got a daughter to make the world a livable place for, and he’s not willing to jeopardize that for some kid who’s looking to play double agent.

He’ll keep an eye out.

**3.**

Tseng receives an email from General Sephiroth regarding one cadet Cloud Strife that somehow manages to be as unfailingly polite as it is outright threatening. The only appropriate response is to draft an official statement of intent and send it in. He has been caught. 

The appropriate time for a meeting with General Sephiroth and Director Lazard is blessedly far away, thanks to their busy schedules, but he is dreading it. He has the General’s respect. This does not mean he has his trust or his favor. 

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Rufus had asked, amused in that vaguely antagonistic way of his. 

They may be under Heidegger, but everyone is aware that the Vice President has the true allegiance of the Department of Administrative Research.

Tseng gave him an affirmative answer, wondering absently if he would regret it later. 

In the days that follow, Reno’s progress with Cloud is a meandering, complicated thing. Reno is rough around the edges. The slums do not often raise timid children. 

When Rude had declared Reno prepared to join the initiative, he’d been called in to sit the exam. He filled out his paperwork in a horrific, looping scrawl, and had drawn an angry looking face in the place of a last name, which was just as well. No one who joins the Turks is ever able to maintain a family.

At the end of each week, Reno swans into his office, sprawls over his favorite chair, and complains. Strife is a little asshole, he says. He’s got connections under the plate, which is perhaps not surprising and more importantly a plus, but he uses those connections to slip Reno’s grasp more than once, which obviously chafes. There’s one trick he uses that is most infuriating of all. Strife will pause to exchange a few words with someone—a shopkeep, a child, a wastrel—and then Reno finds himself conveniently caught in a knot of people traffic, civilians bumping and talking loudly, and by the time they pass, Strife will be gone. Interestingly, he visits the church of the Cetra girl with regularity, but only when she is out selling her flowers. The few times he allows Reno to approach him, he asks a gamut of questions about how the Turks operate. 

This week questions are especially grievous. 

“The kid fucking,” Reno pauses as Tseng leans across his desk, offering him a chocolate from his not so secret candy drawer, “thanks. Anyway, he asked if he’d have to hide bodies.” 

“Did you tell him the truth?” 

“He knows the truth, man. I don’t know why the fuck he does that shit.” 

He busily unwraps his treat and stuffs it into his mouth. A silence passes. Tseng, realizing that Reno has descended into a foul mood that will pass in time, returns to his paperwork. He pauses over a dossier on a series of disappearances. The only apparent rhyme or reason to them is the fact that every person is someone who has been involved with ShinRa’s operations in some way, but the range is wide. 

Some businessman who had funded Neo-Midgar, decades in the past. A SOLDIER stationed in Wutai or some other far-away location. A janitor in upper Junon. Several people in the Science Department, and even a pair of secretaries Tseng vaguely remembers seeing Lieutenant-General Fair flirt with. One was a young man who’d been unremarkable aside from freckles and a spectacular flush that traveled fast, the other a giggly woman with a mole under her eye and a charming smile. Both his type—kind, hard-working, with a clean record. Tseng makes a note of it.

“I think I know.”

“Then why ain’t you out there?” Reno grouses. 

“Because I have work to do and you are the youngest in this program.” 

Reno runs his hand over his face. “Babysitting brats, the best espionage.” 

He says that like he isn’t Strife’s contemporary, being only a few months shy of twenty.

Tseng places his hand palm down on his desk, just loud enough that it captures Reno’s attention. He leans in, and speaks lowly, so that Reno has to strain to hear him. “Reno. He’s testing you as much as you are observing him. This is a good sign. See to it that you don’t lose his interest. Tease him with a bit of information he might not be able to find somewhere else. Try to discuss the finer differences between us and SOLDIER. The General is aware of us now. You have more wiggle room, but now considerably less time. Do not disappoint me.” 

Reno throws his hands up and says, “Man, okay. Damn. Were you guys this horny for me when I was up for grabs?”

“Please don’t say it like that. But yes. We pursue people of interest with tenacity. This program is vital to ShinRa’s safety and efficiency.” 

Reno snorts. “Yeah, if you say so.” 

\--

Tseng and the cadet have been corresponding somewhat sluggishly over the past few days. He’d been impressed by his deductions concerning Mayor Domino, not that he wasn’t aware, as director of the Turks. But if none of the Turks’ operatives have gotten curious and deduced that themselves, it means something. 

It also means something that Strife emails him with his cadet email. This is not so uncommon in itself. All ShinRa emails can be found on the main website. What is concerning is that Strife reaches out to him on a server that should be hidden for the sole use of Department of Administrative Research. He has many talents. Fascinating.

(_ What are your intentions? _ Tseng emails him. 

_ seeing how far i can push you lol_, is the response, and sure enough, Reno storms into his office with his hair dyed blue.)

He’s not overly surprised when Strife requests a meeting. He’s asked to “ditch the getup” and come to a restaurant at the corner of Wall-Market. Tseng has not come as far as he has by trusting people, so he slides a blade into his boot.

The restaurant, if it can be called that, is assembled out of scrap metal. Tseng recognized the unmistakable smell of natto several feet away, and when he pushes aside the faded noren acting as its only door, a flood of memories hit him as the smell strengthens. He’d never liked natto, back home. It is the epitome of an acquired taste. Now that he has a chance to taste it again, he longs for it. 

As is often the case with slum shanties, it looks a little larger on the inside than one would expect at first glance, every space filled with careful planning. There are tables surrounded by faded lawn chairs, an obviously pilfered pinball machine beside a door in the back corner, and a cracked bar serves as the front counter, if the safe on top of it is any indication. The safe is the only thing in the entire place that looks fairly new. 

There’s a cleverly, but perhaps dangerously, assembled grill in the form of netting held aloft with wire and poles. A hole has been dug into the ground to allow space for a fire, which heats a pressure cooker. The little lady standing imperiously over the rice cooker looks up at him as he enters and smiles, beckoning him inside. He bows to her, murmuring a word of thanks, which makes the hardened lines of her face soften. 

She calls out, in Wutaian, “_Cloud, is this your friend? With the pretty tilak? _” 

There’s a great tumbling from behind the bar. A curse filters out, which the owner meets with a hissing sound of warning. “Sorry, Nakamura-san. Yeah, that’s my friend.”

“No Common! What I tell you, spiky boy!” She says, in common. 

Strife laughs. “_Understood. No Common until I leave_.” His Wutaian is accented (so is his Common), but proficient.

Nakamura shakes her head at Tseng. “_ And you are? _” 

“_Tseng,_” he has to pause to stop himself from offering a last name, “_It’s a pleasure to meet you. _” 

“_Go get seated. I’ll have you a plate soon. I see you drooling. You living on top of the plate? I bet you haven’t had anything with flavor in a while, poor boy. Cloud’s fixing my pinball machine, he’ll be with you in a minute_.”

She has the accent of the people on the coast, sing-songy and high pitched, understandable only with concentration. It sounds lovely.

The other patrons were giving him curious looks as he arrived, but when he takes a seat near the entrance, they promptly look away. There are people of all ages, some Wutaian and some not, all of them visibly tired. A young woman is crying privately into her miso soup, not even bothering to clear her face. 

After a few minutes, Strife emerges from underneath the pinball machine, his face covered in grime. He puts a little tool box on the bar. “_You could try kicking it? This might be a lost cause. _”

Nakamura groans. “_The children are going to be obnoxious. _” 

Strife says, “_They’re obnoxious all the time. It’ll be okay _.”

She shakes her head with a sigh. “_There’s some yakisoba for you in the kitchen. It should still be warm. _” 

She waves off his thanks, and Strife pushes past the little door at the back. He returns with a bowl that must be larger than his face. He insists that it’s too much, and she primly tells him to save the rest for leftovers because he’s too skinny.

Strife takes a seat across from Tseng, and says, “We don’t actually have to speak Wutaian the whole time. It’s just that she’ll pinch me for speaking it to her.” 

Nakamura putters over to them with a bowl of natto and rice, and then returns again with chopsticks and a bowl of rice. Tseng takes a bite. It’s awful, from the slimy texture to the flavor and the infamous smell. He loves it. 

To his surprise, Cloud does not ask anything about the Turks. He does ask about Tseng, and when his questions are deflected or answered simply, he rolls with it and speaks about his training, about what’s happening in the slums, the strange politics of the cadet regiment he’s in. 

They talk briefly in Wutain. When Tseng has to correct him (“I don’t think this annoying cadet you’re talking about is a confection, Strife. It’s okashii, not okashi.” “What! Show me how to write that.”) he takes it in stride, making notes on his arm with a pen he materializes from nowhere. When he doesn’t feel like he has the vocabulary for what he wants to convey, he switches to common. He’d be an excellent Turk. 

Nakamura announces the time at the top of every hour, and Strife absently thanks her each time. A routine. When five-o-clock passes, he stretches and then stifles a yawn into the sleeve of his denim jacket. Tseng has never seen him with his arms bared.

“So. What was the meaning of all this?” 

Strife says, without hesitation, “I didn’t want to eat alone.” And then he smiles, the slow spread of it aborted by the chopstick he’s popped into his mouth. “The General freak you out, huh?”

“So you called the director of the Turks for company,” Tseng says, flatly.

“Yup.” 

“Can I ask you something else?” 

“You’ve already asked one question. Call me a genie. You’ve got two left.” 

Interesting. 

“Are you happy here?”

“Nah. Are you?” He continues on without waiting for an answer, surprising Tseng by saying, apropos of nothing, “I think you're weird. I think a lot of things made you like that and I’m curious about those. I like people—even when they don’t deserve it.”

“Define weird_ . _” 

“Is that your next question?” 

Tseng does not press the issue, but it is something he will pursue further. 

“No. Here’s my last question. Are you giving the Turks serious thought?” 

“No_. _” And then he says nothing else.

Tseng grits his teeth against the tide of irritation building within him. 

“You didn’t elaborate_ . _” Cloud says, shrugging again. “Insert another coin next week. Or not. I have to make curfew.” 

He stands, reaches into his pocket and places what Tseng is quickly able to tell is far too much gil for their respective meals. He walks over to the woman who has been leaning over her soup for hours now, places a hand on her shoulder, and crouches beside her chair. They exchange a few words, and at one point she barks out a wet laugh, rubbing at where her makeup has run over her face. He holds his fist out, and she bumps it, finally smiling. She mouths a thank you, which Strife waves off. 

He returns to their table to retrieve his bowl. He barely picked at his food, while Tseng cleaned his dishes. “Tell Reno I said hi.” 

Tseng stays in his seat, closing his eyes in an attempt to school his anger. It is an icky thing, something he has not succumbed to in some time. He ruthlessly suppresses the feeling, places his own tribute for the food down on the table, and leaves.   
  


**4.**

The meeting of the board is one of Heidegger’s least favorite parts of being a ShinRa Executive. 

Tonight, Reeve will not stop looking his way. This isn’t so uncommon for him, the yellow-bellied fool. Every meeting, he watches, he takes notes, and tries to pitch an idea that isn’t even passingly relevant to any of their plans. Every meeting, the President shuts him down and he falls quiet, fuming into his notepad. He’s almost always outvoted. He is the only one who ever thinks to mention Mayor Domino. How anyone could reach his age and hold on to that much naivety, Heidegger will never know.

The next time Heidegger feels the annoying prickle of Reeve’s eyes on him, he makes sure to catch his gaze. Reeve blinks at him, propping his chin into his palm. He’s been looking rough the last few days. What does he expect, spending all those days at his computer, working into the night? It has apparently drained him enough that it’s stolen the breath from his lungs. It’s only a matter of time before his position will become obsolete. 

An unusual silence descends upon the board as they await the President’s arrival. Scarlet is unashamedly reviewing a set of blueprints in bright red pen. Every few minutes or so she scowls and scribbles some message in the margins. Verbal abuse of whatever poor soul created it, no doubt. She always does make things more complicated than they need to be. 

Heidegger does a brief catalogue of duties he’s been putting-off until now. He always pushes them off onto whatever support specialists he trusts the most at the time, rotating the work slowly down the chain of command. If he can complete a task by just signing the paperwork at the end of the day, keeping his secrets is as easy as a wire transfer of an exorbitant amount of gil. Next point of order? Babysitting a pissing match between SOLDIER and The Turks. This, he likely can’t afford to avoid.

His thoughts grind to a halt when Rufus swans his way into the boardroom. Heidegger can see Reeve jolt in his peripheral vision. A few moments later, it’s easy to see why: his little pet fiend slinks alongside him, odd tail undulating almost like liquid against the backdrop of the Vice President’s impeccable white suit. Professor Hojo lets out high little noise, eyeing the thing with eagle-eyed interest.

Rufus stops at the foot of the table, his hands behind his back. His left cheekbone and the bridge of his nose is alight with a fresh bruise, and his hair has fallen out of its usual neat coif. He clears his throat. 

“What happened to you?” Scarlet asks, the twist of her mouth someway between a grimace and an amused little smile. 

Rufus fixes those odd-colored eyes on her, his face severe.

“I am here to make an announcement.” His voice is slurred, husky. “I have reason to believe that the security of our company has been compromised. I must insist that you review your files, both physical and digital. The Turks have agreed to help you vet your staff. You might not be safe outside of headquarters, so consider employing the protection of someone from the Regulation Army. I am telling you this because the President will be along shortly, and I don’t trust him to take this as seriously as he should.” 

“So you want us to, what, do some under-the table detective work?” Heidegger asks, trying and failing to hide his bemusement.

The creature at Rufus’ side lets out a rolling purr, quieting only when Rufus strokes its head, the movement uncharacteristically shaky. It has an odd presence. As it cranes its neck busily to the side, following some sound apparently too faint for them to hear, Heidegger remembers its name. Dark Nation. Fitting, for something a color so deep that it looks as though light has been erased in the shape of something dangerous. 

“It won’t be any different than the ‘under the table’ work you’re doing already.”

Stomach dropping, Heidegger falls silent. 

Rufus addresses the whole of them again. “You have three minutes for questions. Make them quick, if you have them. You can choose not to take this advice, but know that if I have to pick up the pieces for you to my own detriment, you won’t like the outcome.” 

No one has questions. Even Hojo looks thrown, his frown falling deeper than usual.

“Good. Do not contact me regarding this matter using official channels,” Rufus orders, already on his way out. He raises a phone to his ear. “Cissnei, please turn them back on.” 

True to his word, President ShinRa arrives not soon after his son’s departure. He glances at them as he takes his seat, and then furrows his brows, giving them a second look. 

“Were you all fussing again?” 

“Reeve and his ideas,” Scarlet rolls her eyes.

Reeve coughs. He glances back down at his notepad, writes something down, and then closes it. “It’s nothing important after all, Mr. President.” 

\--

It’s ridiculous that Heidegger has to go through several channels to access the work of a division under his control, but this is the price he pays for delegation. He speaks to Rufus, who makes a phone call to Tseng, who later calls Heidegger, sounding entirely too amused with the situation at hand.

“You could have called, Mr. Heidegger.” 

“Would you have picked up?” He retorts. 

Tseng says, “No.” and it’s only because he has Rufus’ favor that Heidegger rethinks firing him in retribution. At least he can trust that Tseng will always remain transparent with him. 

The next few days are a drag of interviews and research guided by the Turk appointed to him, a pretty little thing with wavy ginger hair and endless patience. Cissnei is her name, and she is professionally disinterested in every offer Heidegger throws her way. It is as infuriating as it is enticing. 

Rufus quietly insists that each department head participate in the sweep of their respective domains. Heidegger does not even know how many grunts make up the Regulation Army. This will take months. If Rufus is seriously concerned about a possible breach, whoever is causing so much trouble is likely to dance away consequence free at the rate they’re going. They collect blackmail on every employee they review, present it at every interview, keep tabs on them afterwards. Ironically, the President compliments them for their diligence regarding their employees. 

\--

It’s a slow day when Heidegger realizes that whatever had Rufus so shaken may have some merit. He spends a good amount of time shuffling between builds, carried insistently along by Cissnei. The entire time, he is deeply convinced he is being watched. Each time he looks for the source of it, the knot of tension in his stomach unfurls abruptly, like whatever has its eyes on him is exerting physical pressure on him. 

“Do you feel like you’re being watched a lot, dear?” He asks Cissnei. 

“Yes, Mr. Heidegger,” she hums, her customary response to most of his questions. She’s poring over files on the cadet corps of SOLDIER now. 

Rufus is being ridiculous. A vast majority of cadets are snot-nosed brats.

\--

It’s the sound of breaking glass that wakes him up. 

Heidegger has never been a light sleeper, but this noise is almost deafening in the silence of his bedroom. It feels as though he was asleep, and then a second later he snapped into consciousness, disoriented and afraid. He reaches for his bedside table, feeling for his alarm clock.

“Don’t. Move.” 

The stranger’s voice, distorted by a modulator, sounds high-pitched and trilling.

He freezes. 

“Gee, you’ve been kinda popular lately.” 

There’s a pistol in his bedside table’s drawer. There’s also a shotgun underneath his bed. 

His bed dips with the weight of another occupant. The stranger throws their leg over his waist. He notices immediately that they don’t weigh much, but when he plants his feet, two hands close around his throat with savage strength. Two hands wrap around his ankles. A moment later, his wrists are caught in the vice like grip of two sets of hands. Fear rolls through him, living his skin feeling hot and prickly. There are at least four people in his room. At least four people made their way into his condo either undetected, or with force.

It’s too dark for Heidegger to make out the other people in the room, but the faint glow of his alarm clock falls on the figure straddling him. They are dressed in black from head to toe, with goggles settled firmly over their eyes. 

“I told you not to move. That’s strike one. We’re going to play twenty questions, except you only get to answer. Try to move again and I’ll slit your throat. Lie to me and I’ll slit your throat. Do you understand?”

The hands around his neck loosen. “Yes.” 

“Nice. What have you found in your little investigation?”

“Nothing important!” 

His assailant cocks their head. The hands around his neck tighten in warning.

“We… we found mostly blackmail material. Most everyone has something. Some people are having affairs. Some people have new identities. Nobody has stood out.”

“No?” 

“No, I swear.” 

“Who’s the Turk that’s working with you?” 

“Her name is Cissnei.” 

“Do you trust her?” 

“She’s a _ Turk _.” 

Heidegger regrets saying this the instant it happens. The silence that follows is horrible. Then, the stranger says, “That’s fair.” 

At least an hour passes like this. Heidegger quickly loses feelings in his hands and feet. 

Is there anyone the Vice President suspects in particular? (Not to his knowledge. He does seem oddly untrusting of his own father.) 

Are there any divisions facing special interest? (Every single division under the Public Safety Maintenance Department deserves scrutiny, including the Turks, because all of them have allegiances that do not lie with ShinRa. SOLDIER looks to and is weirdly protective of their general. The Turks are all but in Rufus’ pocket. The Regulation Army has something of an identity that they want to level against SOLDIER, for whatever reason. Private security is populated almost completely by mercenaries, who go where the money goes.) 

Is Reeve Tuesti really as committed to the city as he says he is? (Yes, and no one knows why.)

Are there any plans for the slums? (They’re considering flushing foreigners out and increasing patrols along checkpoints. A legal exception for Don Corneo and the Honeybee Inn is in the works.)

How is the Neo-Midgar project going? (At least half an hour of every board meeting is dedicated to discussing its progression.) 

Has Scarlet been working on anything new? (She’s always working. Always. It should be assumed that she will always be dangerous.) 

What can he say about Hojo? (Brilliant. Evil. Utterly unlikable.) 

Similar questions follow. Heidegger is fighting yawns, terrified that the sudden shift will further endanger his life. 

“Cool. Thank you for your time.” 

A brilliant glow fills his vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm pleased to announce that this is about 75% done. all the stress from my classes and finals filled me with inspiration to write lmao. the document is 77 pages and growing, and i'm pushing 30,000 words. wowee!  
more chapters will come once they're finalized and edited!
> 
> the word cloud used to describe the other cadet is written お菓子 (okashi). he meant to use 可笑しい (okashii). when you spell these words with hiragana or in romaji, it can be easy to mix them up if you haven't studied! this is why kanji and vocabulary are so important
> 
> my buddy kindly looked over the bulk of this little tale, so any leftover mistakes are mine. please point them out to me if they're especially bad. (if you're reading this, danny, thanks so much for looking over this. i feel like the half the stuff i write wouldn't see the light of day without your encouragement and support!)
> 
> thanks for reading! the next chapter will probably come a week or so from today, after my finals are done. wish me luck... college is draining my soul i think


	5. Interlude 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hey! im posting a bit earlier than i expected!
> 
> am fully cognizant of the fact that interludes are meant to be short but i had a lot of fun writing this in particular because i love this format and i was literally just playing in my sandbox of ideas abt the ffvii world haha
> 
> as always, if there are any glaring mistakes or weird formatting just point it out & ill fix it up later

**1.**

Mr. Tuesti, 

Thank you for your cooperation during our last few correspondences. I’m sorry I had to introduce myself to you in that way. I’ll send you money for the damages if you cooperate. I’m also sorry that I have to confirm that you should take me seriously by telling you this: 

Your full name is Reeve Alphonse Tuesti. You are newly thirty years old—your birthday was at the beginning of last month. You have family on the Northern Continent. You’ve got a loving relationship with your parents. You’re something of an inventor. Your position in ShinRa is all but ornamental. When you first joined, you thought you might be doing some good, but quickly learned that you were wrong. By the time you accepted that, you realized you couldn’t leave the company or you might be killed. You’re a skilled architect and you designed Midgar. A lot of the “urban development” that you do amounts to redlining vulnerable populations. You don’t want to do it, but if you want to help people, you have to play along a little bit. Did I miss anything? 

It helps to work on the inside of an evil you’re trying to bring down, but you usually can’t change it. Sometimes it doesn’t deserve to be changed. Sometimes it needs to be burned to the ground and the earth salted. I think you’re a good man, Mr. Tuesti, which is why I have been contacting you. I hope you’ll forgive my secrecy. Leave a tip for whoever gave you this, alright? It will be someone different every time, but you’ll know I sent them because they’ll find a way to say “dilly-dally” to you. Corresponding this way is a lot easier and a lot more secure than any other way I could think of. My couriers will watch you read and destroy each message you get.

Here’s what will happen. Whenever the executive board has a meeting, you’ll write up a detailed summary of what was discussed, no matter how routine. You’re the only one who takes notes when the board meets. No one will suspect you for taking a little more. I also want you to let me know when the president is pushing plans for the city your way. If you hear any gossip that sounds out of the ordinary to you, tell me about that as well.

**This part is most important: pay attention to Professor Hojo. **

I’m sure you understand that if you report this to anyone, I’ll know. I’ll also kill you. Understand that I don’t want to kill you, but I have too much to lose and I won’t allow anyone to fuck it up, even someone like you. 

And no, before you ask: I’m not affiliated with AVALANCHE in any way. Let’s be honest, they have kind of been incompetent for their entire history. Heard they’re getting their sea legs again, though. Might wanna watch out for that.

You’ll hear from me again soon. 

-O

\--

Mr. Tuesti, 

Allow me to clear a few things up for you. Your family is not in danger. Killing them would be unnecessary and cruel. Killing you would save countless lives. At this stage, it’s critically important that all the pieces fall into place. I really don’t want to start this whole process over again. While you’re a helpful asset, you are definitely expendable. As long as you don’t speak to them about this, your family is totally safe.

Thank you for your recent batch of information. You’ll hear for me again next week.

-O

\--

Mr. Tuesti, 

Your information regarding the Vice President’s sweep was extremely helpful. Don’t worry about scrutiny from the board members. I have that covered. 

Do you feel threatened by the reviews in your own department? It’s to my understanding that it’s fairly small. What can you tell me about the Turk that was assigned to you? 

As for last week’s request, yes, this can be done. I appreciate that you want to. I have an operative who can meet you at the theatre in Sector 8. Don’t worry about the baby Turks. From there, the two of you can discuss your next meeting place. 

In the meantime, if there’s anything you need assistance with—anything at all—don’t hesitate to let me know. If it’s within my power, I’ll get it done. 

Thanks for your hard work.

-O

**2.**

From: zfair.1stc@shinra.org

To: cstrife.cad@shinra.org

Subject: Please Don’t Bully Your Instructors

Spike, 

Heard from Instructor Luxiere about sword training today. Is everything okay, kiddo? I know you have some trouble sometimes, but this is like the fourth time in three weeks that he’s complained to me about you in some way. It isn’t like you to antagonize people. It’s absolutely an option for you to drop that class and get credit with me-you know I’ll make time for you. 

From: cstrife.cad@shinra.org

To: zfair.1stc@shinra.org

Re: Please Don’t Bully Your Instructors

Lieutenant-General Fair, 

There are no issues between me and Instructor Luxiere. I just don’t think he’s a good teacher. I think maybe he should go back into the field. As to your other question, yes, I would prefer just working with you.

From: zfair.1stc@shinra.org

To: cstrife.cad@shinra.org

Re: Please Don’t Bully Your Instructors

Spike, 

Remember how we made a deal to communicate during our first session?

From: cstrife.cad@shinra.org

To: zfair.1stc@shinra.org

Re: Please Don’t Bully Your Instructors

Lieutenant-General Fair,

I think he’s opportunistic. I don’t think he’s in this to do any kind of good, and he’s great at hiding it. I feel like that kind of thing has a bleeding effect, especially for young people. Sometimes he says things that are just off. He’ll give a suggestion that’s diplomatic, while hinting at something else in so many words. I know I’ve seen a few Cadets get bullied in his classes, and I know he sees it too, but he’d watch and not say anything. Is that why he complained to you? I called him on his negligence and he couldn’t get me to shut up. Sorry, I can’t do that. 

I don’t have anything that would serve as adequate proof for you. I guess I would say to pay close attention when you talk to him. You guys are friends, right?

I hope this isn’t an overstep. I’ll understand if you don’t want to work with me anymore.  
  


From: zfair.1stc@shinra.org

To: cstrife.cad@shinra.org

Subject: You Silly Kid

Cloud,

There is very little you could do to make me not want to work with you. I see this spark in you, and it’s amazing. I want to be a part of making sure that you do something great with it.

You want to just train with me? Done. We’ll talk to the Director about logging hours. I’ll keep what you said in mind, as well. Would you feel comfortable if I had a conversation with Luxiere about how you feel? 

I just want you to be honest with me, kid. We’re totally okay. Trust me when I say I’ll tell you when we’re not. That definitely won’t be an issue we tackle over email—I mean, I’m only doing this because I didn’t have time to catch you before my mission. 

How is everything else? Classes? No more materia incidents? How’s Tifa? You staying out of trouble? Make sure you’re going over those forms. We’ll review when I get back. 

From: cstrife.cad@shinra.org

To: zfair.1stc@shinra.org

Re: You Silly Kid

Please don’t talk to Instructor Luxiere. Like I said, I mostly think you should watch him. But thank you for trusting me. It means a lot.

Classes are fine. No materia accidents lately. Tifa’s doing fine. Her bar is doing really well. Freida’s been driving her up the wall, but all else is good. I’m proud of her.

You know I can’t promise I’m staying out of trouble. I have a lot of things to do. I can promise I won’t make you look bad. I’ve got the forms down and I look forward to showing you. 

\--

From: zfair.1stc@shinra.org

To: abelk.2ndc@shinra.org

Re: Baldy’s Materia Problem

Hey Belk, 

Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you in a bit. I was on assignment out West, you know how it is. 

To answer your question, yeah, Cloud and I have been discussing his materia issue since I got back. He told me it’s been like that since he was a kid. He hasn’t ever been able to handle it that well. The thing is, If he can learn how to hone it, I think he could be a heavy hitter on the field. 

I’ve been considering asking the General to assess, but I think that might be a bit much even for Cloud. That’s the only other person I could think of, though. The General once told me that he has to be careful about overestimating the strength of people he’s fighting with. Maybe he’d have some advice? It’s just that all the cadets and thirds get so cooky about him. They think he’s cool, but they see those eyes up close and suddenly they’re terrified.

The rest of us got there with practice, practice, practice. The kid’s almost afraid to use materia around me even though he knows I’m enhanced. 

Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Is there anything else you think I should be aware of?

Thanks,

Lieutenant-General Zackary Fair

SOLDIER First Class

From: abelk.2ndc@shinra.org

To: zfair.1stc@shinra.org

Re: Baldy’s Materia Problem

Zackary,

Congrats on a successful mission son. You’re doing good work. 

I honestly think you might as well take him to old Sephiroth. Gods above know that he’s probably bored as shit anyway. And if any more of these cadets complain to me about your boy I may just wring some necks and I’d rather spend my money on nice shoes for my kid instead of legal fees. It’s not like Strife scares easy. If he does get spooked, maybe it’ll make the little bastard less mouthy. 

I think everything I told you is a pretty good wrap up of what’s going down. If we want to keep this kid in the ranks we have to make sure he feels prepared. I’m not losing another good one to those slimy sons of bitches under the vice president. 

Best, 

Colonel Amous Belk  
SOLDIER 2nd Class 

\--

From: zfair.1stc@shinra.og

To: cstrife.cad@shinra.org

Subject: Help For Your Materia Thing

Hey kiddo, 

I’ve reached out to someone who might be able to help you with your materia control problem. They had a similar problem when they were about your age, so they can answer any questions you may have and give you some advice. 

They have to remain anonymous, but you’ll be able to talk to them via the email special.25@shinra.org . You can go ahead and send them something first if you want, but the only way they can get an email from you is if they reach out first and put them in their contacts. I doubt this will be a problem with you, but this warning is mandatory (like literally company mandated): this email address was created with the express purpose of serving you. Do not tell anyone about the address’ existence, this connection, or your correspondence. This is for the protection of you and others.

I expect you to let me know if this is helpful, okay? If it isn’t, we’ll keep looking.

\--

From: special.25@shinra.org  
To: cstrife.cad@shinra.org ,

Subject: Materia Contact Introduction

Hello, Cadet Strife, 

Lieutenant-General Fair has asked that I offer you support and council with regards to your materia sensitivity.

My time is very limited. I will usually make my replies to you early in the morning. If you are up, there is a chance to receive quicker feedback. Please do not concern yourself with the length of your messages. I am volunteering my time.

Will you tell me what your materia use is like? I was told by Lieutenant-General Fair that you have struggled with this for quite some time. Did it manifest differently as a child? At its worst, what are the usual consequences? Have you ever injured yourself or others with your magic? If there is anything else that may be relevant, you should include that in your response.

There are a few things I must make clear. You will not know my name—it is my hope that, by us being connected through secure channels by a mutual acquaintance, you will trust that this is no scam. You are not to tell anyone else about this—for your protection, theirs, and mine.

Best, 

J.

From cstrife.cad@shinra.org

To: special.25@shinra.org  
Re: Materia Contact Introduction 

hello j. since i can’t know who you are, i’m not going to make any assumptions about rank, so don’t expect any of the formalities. it’s exhausting. i also have limited time and i exercise in the mornings, so you’ll be hearing from me at night. im not an impatient person, i can wait. if the lieutenant-general sent you, you have my conditional trust.

when i use materia it’s like i have trouble focusing on what i want the magic to do. like my body gets excited that it’s there and just connects. it was mostly the same as a kid, but it wasn’t as much of a problem then because no one else was around. as for incidents, i guess that depends on what you mean. it’s not like i’m making explosions and warping reality. it’s just that whatever i want to happen usually doesn’t happen. before you ask, yes, i have tried the practice incantations they taught us. on a good day they make things less intense. now that i think of it, i guess i’d say that the worst thing about it is that it takes a lot out of me. those natural reserves they teach you about when it comes to magic? i think i have a lot, but every time i tap into them it’s like i use huge chunks of it.

i once set a kid’s hair on fire in class, but he was okay. it’s all dead protein, so it’ll grow back as long as he’s living. 

zack said you had trouble like me when you were my age. was it like that?

From: special.25@shinra.org  
To: cstrife.cad@shinra.org

Re: Materia Contact Introduction

Cadet Strife,

Yes, it was something like that. Similarly to you, I had specialized training in the early days of my career. I have injured a sparring partner by instinctively activating a barrier materia. He lost a tooth. Famously, I flooded a training room. I cast ice, covered the entire room, and somehow thought that casting fire would help. Those who remember have not let me live it down. For me, the worst side effects were self harm. I cannot say that I’ve ever set anyone else’s hair on fire, but I have set fire to my own. I started growing it out to test my limits—if I walked away from training smelling of burnt hair, I knew that I needed to do better.

Materia sensitivity is typically an issue that new members of the SOLDIER program struggle with. When the process of enhancement begins, new SOLDIERS are exposed to increasing levels of lightly refined mako. As SOLDIERS rise in the ranks, the level of refinement decreases in order to ensure a scaffolding effect with regards to physical capabilities. Mako, if it does not kill them outright, strengthens all living things it is exposed to. This is why you often hear tales of especially strong fiends lurking near reactor towns. The localization of mako in the area disrupts the expected exposure mako levels. Are you familiar with the mako cycle? I am unsure if you have begun to learn about it in your classes. All living creatures will be exposed to mako at some point in their lives. This is natural. However, now that we have essentially added a step to the mako cycle, the potential for abnormalities is significantly higher.

You are correct in your assessment that your natural reserves are large. This is what causes materia sensitivity. It is to my understanding that you grew up in a reactor town. Do you have any memories of exposure to mako—refined or unrefined—over the course of your childhood? This might be a possible explanation. It is very rare to have naturally high reserves for magic. I suppose this question in particular is more to sate my own curiosity. It does not matter if your talent is natural or synthetic. It affects you. This is why I am here to help.

I can tell you with certainty that regular practice will help. This may seem obvious. What I mean is that you must practice using less of your reserves. The moment you start to feel the exhaustion you mentioned, you must stop. This will help your body set limits. Are you eating a balanced diet? You would be surprised at how much eating a few grains can change your life.

You must also work on building your focus. Using materia, especially more powerful materia, is overwhelming. If you allow yourself to lose sight of your intent, you risk self injury. 

What questions do you have for me?

Best,

J.

From: cstrife.cad@shinra.org

To: special.25@shinra.org

Re: Materia Contact Introduction

j,

first question: what’s with the secrecy about this email? it makes me nervous that this sort of thing is done often enough that there are protocols. like who are you? i don’t think it’ll hurt anyone for me to know that.

second question: i’m unsure of what you mean by building focus. i’ve never really had a problem following through with a task. at the risk of sounding arrogant, this has been good for me. is there some kind of special focus i’m missing out on?

looking back, i probably was exposed to more mako than is usual without my knowing about it. i spent a lot of time gallivanting all over the place because there was nothing to do. that’s how i was able to find materia in the first place. nibelheim is surrounded pretty much on all sides by mountains, and there are natural mako springs in places. in the past folks would climb it to hunt and pray to the old gods. when people started contacting us for trade and the like, those practices died out for the most part. but old paths still exist. some of them are more rickety than others, so i ended up having to take shortcuts and detours in places that haven’t been traveled in a long time.

as for my diet, i think it’s probably a little better than the average cadet’s, but not by much. do you know anything about the shit they serve us in the mess? i swear i saw someone scrap some film off of his corn before he ate it. i know you people have money lying around. maybe take a few gil out of the “bullying random citizens” fund?

third question: does this ever go away?

fourth question: am i safe to use this in training with lieutenant-general fair? he swears up and down he’ll be okay. i don’t want this to be the time i actually hurt someone.

From: special.25@shinra.org

To: cstrife.cad@shinra.org

Re: Materia Contact Introduction

Cadet Strife, 

I am a SOLDIER. I will allow you that. However, it is in your best interest that you do not pursue this particular line of questioning any further. 

Yes, there is a kind of “special focus” you need to build. Is there a person or memory that brings you comfort? It does not have to be grand. Think on it before you begin practice. Are you familiar with mindfulness exercises? I would also suggest running through a few of them before you practice. I was dubious about them when I first learned of them, but there is empirical evidence that mindfulness reduces stress. Reducing the tension in your body will make it easier for you to centralize the flow of magic. We will speak of this more when you have applied these suggestions. It will be easier to explain in depth at that point.

You had a very adventurous childhood indeed. It is certainly possible that you risked exposure, and its effects are cumulative. As I said, it is no matter. You will have your answer when you start mako treatments, and your dosage will be adjusted accordingly. Thank you for indulging me. Would you be averse to doing it again? Who are these “old gods” you speak of? 

Speak to Lieutenant-General Fair for advice about building a better diet. I am well aware of the problems SOLDIER cadets have with nutrition. It is to my understanding that General Sephiroth has addressed it with regularity. Let us hope that something will be done about it soon. 

Materia sensitivity does not go away. It stabilizes and is manageable with practice. It is best that you learn how to cope with it now, before you find yourself facing a host of issues on the field. 

This is really something you should discuss with Lieutenant-General Fair, but I am confident that he is in no immediate danger. As you know, Lieutenant-General Fair is a highly capable SOLDIER. His enhancements will also protect him from most harm should you manage to reach him. I am surprised that you are practicing with magic with him. He is an adept user, but he is known more for his swordsmanship and strength. This is in part due to his training with General Hewley. You are the next in a generation of fine fighters.

What questions do you have for me? 

Best,

J.

  
  


From: cstrife.cad@shinra.org

To: special.25@shinra.org

Re: Materia Contact Information

the old gods aren’t really spoken of much anymore. they were responsible for the safety of early peoples in the northern continent. people under their dominion traveled the seas pretty often, partly to share their word, but mostly because it was difficult to make a living in an environment like that. they’d go out in search of resources, new places to live, new people to encourage genetic diversity, things like that. a few of the more warlike clans settled nibelheim because—get this—they were used to living in the cold. my mother’s family is descended from some of those clans and they kept to tradition a little more stringently. most people in nibelheim are descended from a baker’s dozen of families. my mother told me that, according to my grandmother, the elders had to observe family trees very closely when considering possible marriages. it’s less of a concern now because people are trickling in and out. 

there are a lot of old gods. it’s hard to explain briefly in an email. i can tell you with confidence that people in my family were descended from two clans under the dominion of tyr and freyja, respectively. they couldn’t be more opposite. tyr is a god of war and justice. while freyja has been associated with war, she’s basically the patron of life and love. i can ask my mother for more details if you want. we speak our ancestors’ language, but i don’t really know as much about the whole thing as she does.

thank you for that pointer. i’ve got a bunch of memories i can pull from. i gotta say, though, j. i didn’t take you for someone who meditated. you’re like the little wutaian grannies in wall market. i guess i’ll join in.

\--

From: cstrife.cad@shinra.org

To: special.25@shinra.org

Subject: much to think abt 🤔

j, 

they fed us fresh fruit in the mess hall this morning. sexy! i could give the general a hug, if i wasnt sure he’d skewer me for trying. don’t get me wrong, the main fare was still macabre, but i swear i felt tears in my eyes when i bit into that plum. i’m a growing boy. the pleasure of breaking the surface tension of fruit with my teeth is necessary for my development. just a stepping stone to greatness. 

here’s a lightning round of answers to your questions from the other day.

  1. i see the merits of the swordmage specialization, but i don’t know that it’s right for me. i didn’t choose my reaction to materia, but i’d hope i can choose what i’d like to do in my work. i know this is something i’ll have to live with, but i don’t want it to rule my life. i’m sure that general hewley has the same sensitivity, but he’s also the general who uses his magic the least. i admire that, and not just because he’s my grand mentor or whatever. 

  1. it’s chicken or the egg when it comes to tyr and odin allfather. in the end it doesn’t matter. i’m pretty sure that if they ever existed they’re probably asleep or something. 

  1. i made a breakthrough with protective materia the other night. i was able to fortify myself, and change the malleability of some barriers. why does it feel like that’s easier to work with than healing or offensive stuff? is that just me? 

  1. i have a lot to say about this. first, there needs to be a more intense vetting process for who teaches what. do these soldiers actually want to teach? do they have the patience to work with young people? stuff like that. i’m convinced some of my instructors just want to bully some children.

more to this point, shinra needs to stop employing anyone who’s of age and wants to fight. not everyone is like lieutenant-general fair. some people want a free pass to treat civilians poorly, or they want to be strong and rich. this can build resentment in people who fail the soldier exam, or even the ones who somehow pass and realize they’re beholden to rules.

you know how i feel about the food. it’s bad. please fix it, yeehaw.

finally, and this is maybe a stretch, but cadets need leave that isn’t just, like, “oh oh you had a Mental Health Incident and we don’t want to be responsible if you have a breakdown” kind of leave. i dont know how that could be implemented, though. maybe a set amount of days, or on a rewards system, something. and it needs to be paid. i feel like the last part in particular should go without saying, but nobody said shinra will treat people like human beings unless publicly reminded that they should do that.

here are some more questions for you:

a while back you hinted that different levels of mako treatments would kind of restart this whole process. did you find that it was easier to get stabilized after you knew what to expect?

will i have to use any materia in the soldier exam?

did you ever have trouble shifting domains of magic? for example if i’m starting with destructive magic and want to move on to something like stop or slow, it feels like it takes a bit longer to tap into it. then when i shift from the temporal to healing magic, i have to actively remind myself not to put too much into it.

From: special.25@shinra.org

To: cstrife.cad@shinra.org

Re: much to think abt 🤔

Cadet Strife, 

I am delighted to hear about your fresh fruit. I am sorry more could not be done at present, but I’m pleased nonetheless that the Cadets were able to enjoy such a treat.

As for specialization, you are right to an extent. If you are taking advantage of the full range of resources and training at your disposal, you should be able to avoid over dependency on a particular school of combat. However, you must consider two things. First, working to your strengths will only benefit you. Second, the fact that you are struggling with controlling your magic at your age, before any deliberate enhancements, is telling. I worry that you may be “shooting yourself in the foot,” so to speak. 

Very interesting. Thank you again for your patience with my questions regarding your culture. The pursuit of knowledge for knowledge’s sake is a hobby and a comfort of mine. If you are unable to determine who came first, why is it that Odin receives the designation of Allfather?

Congratulations on your progress with protective materia. You might find it silly, but the answer may be as simple as your personality. Are you protective by nature? Regardless, this is a good sign. If you are able to notice an improvement in any area, I am confident you can achieve that in others. 

Thank you for your insight regarding the program. Would you mind if I recorded your responses? You would be anonymous, of course. I think this would go a long way towards building the case for sweeping reform. I’m also pleased to see that you do, in fact, know how to use capitalization. Consider employing it liberally.

My answers for you: 

Excellent question. Yes, and no. I do not think that “restarting” the process is the best word for it, but we are wanting for a better one. I do not think that the scaffolding of your ability will be as overwhelming as this may feel, but you will feel it. However, the same could be said for your senses. You will have to learn to adjust to enhanced hearing. You will absolutely underestimate your strength at some point. Especially bright lights can be disorienting. It is not a pleasant process, but it is important that you push through it. This will encourage a shorter adjustment period. Does that make sense? It will all be a part of a process that you will quickly learn to cope with. You have some time before you even need to worry about this.

I cannot answer any questions regarding the SOLDIER exam, Cadet. You should know this. I appreciate your enthusiasm, however.

Yes, this is common. I would like for you to pay particular attention to change from temporal magic into any other domain. Temporal magic is not to be toyed with. Only use it in emergency situations. When you use it, you are bending reality. Thus, more is required of you to start the process. Because you struggle with stemming the flow of your reserves, you move from unconsciously calling on it more than usual. Sliding into a school of magic that requires less will see you doing more than you intended. Exercise caution, especially if you are using offensive materia.

How do you even have some, Cadet? This kind of materia is costly. Did Lieutenant-General Fair give it to you? I know he is your “biggest fan” and that he has a lot of faith in you.

I would like to thank you for your studiousness and hard work these last few weeks, Cadet. I am confident you will do well on the exam, and I look forward to calling you my fellow SOLDIER.

Best,

J.

  
  


**3.**

Mama,

Please stop sending back the money. I promise you I don’t need it. I’ve even attached my bank records for the past few months. No Cadet gets by on the ShinRa salary alone. I’ve found other work.

Things have been fine. No one here can cook quite like you. Tifa’s put your recipes to good use. Every time I try to make them myself I get upset by the smells. It’s silly. Send me a recipe of something simple?

Love, 

Ský

Mama, 

No, I will not stop sending you letters if you use the phone I sent. That might be one of the silliest things you’ve ever asked me. It’s not like reception in Nibelheim is gonna be very good in the first place. It’s mostly for my benefit anyway. 

Do not spend a gil on making sure it’s operational. I have that covered.

Love, 

Ský

Mama, 

Tifa says that Freida is driving her crazy. I didn’t want to go to Midgar without her, but she’s so restless here. If we let her roam free for too long, we risk her safety. If we keep her cooped up inside for too long, we risk someone else’s safety. How would you feel about having her again? Maybe Vincent can bring her, if you want her. She’s miserable. 

Love,

Ský

Mama, 

I don’t need to get married. I have a spouse and their name is work. Freida is your granddaughter. Please don’t ask me about that again. 

In other news, we worked with new materia in training today. It was Fire. The kid next to me said something too loudly and shocked me. I may have singed his hair. Tragic. My instructor was convinced I did it on purpose because it’s not the first time it’s happened. Now I have cleaning duty, including the bathrooms. I think this might be a human rights violation.

I’ve been sleeping about as well as I can. You know me. I’m a busy body.

More gil coming your way soon.

Love,

Ský

Mama,

Zack says he thinks I have no manners. Wasn’t sure how to tell him I just don’t think anyone here deserves them. 

People here are just so unrelentingly sad or awful. There’s little in between. Is that unkind of me to say? But who wouldn’t be, though, living like this? I feel like the subway rats are the happiest creatures I’ve met here so far.

You asked why I’m doing this. I’ll tell you later, but I promise I have a good reason. Don’t worry about me. When have you ever known me to be unresourceful? It’s my job to take care of you—don’t try to distract me.

Love,

Ský

Mama, 

How would you feel about leaving Nibelheim? I have a friend in a town south of you. I think you would like it. The people are kind, and it’s much warmer. I don’t want you here in Midgar (it sucks) but I don’t think Nibelheim is right for you, either. Get back to me.

Love, 

Ský

**4.**

**Ω🌻🌸Flower Boy🌸🌻Ω**

mrs. nakamura coming your way with food  
open door for her

We told you that’s not necessary!

whatever i do what i want  
u know how she is anyways  
“kuraudo-san, if you don’t eat all of this fucking food i will be very old lady sad”  
do you want her to be sad aerith. do you want to be responsible for that.  
somebody has to eat her food or she’ll give me that look and i’ll go into cardiac arrest i think

Ah. A small price to pay for Mrs. Nakamura😔  
Are you free right now? You could be helping me eat this.

not free sry  
had an appointment to keep, came down bc i was being asked for and i didn’t think i’d find the time to help in the foreseeable future  
u have tifa. she’s much prettier company than me  
u know. sometimes i think she likes u more than me 

Oh, for sure. 💁 We bonded over how stupid you can be.  
She helps me with my flowers sometimes, you know? You’re lucky to have had her.  
And she’s so funny. I can see both of you in each other. It’s nice.  
I like it when people are friends. Does that even make any sense? I just like seeing people happy together. So it’s nice to, like, be the one being happy with other people! ☺️

i know, aerith.  
tell u what, if this week can pass without one day of nonsense i’ll try to come down just for a visit  
take u guys to lunch and third wheel it on my phone while you flirt

Oops! 🤭 Mrs. Nakamura has arrived so now I get to avoid where this conversation is going!

🤔🤔🤔

\--

**Ω🌻🌸Flower Boy🌸🌻Ω**

Hey, Cloud?  
It’s kinda late. Or early. Are you awake?

when am i not is a better question at this point  
what do you need?

I just need to vent to someone.  
Is that okay? I know you’re busy.

ofc  
i’ve got time  
and even if i’m not available right away i’ll make time for you later  
don’t forget that

I won’t!  
I didn’t really have the best childhood.  
I tried really really hard to hide what I was when I moved here to Midgar. I was so little when I got here that I don’t really remember much from before. It wasn’t great, though, so I guess I was afraid that drawing attention to myself meant that someone would take me away.  
Did you ever have to do that kind of thing growing up? You feel different from most people.

yeah  
i scared my mom a lot, mostly?  
sometimes id open my mouth to talk to her and like  
whatever came out wasn’t something that belongs here. like with the living  
it’d make her feel really bad and she would try to pretend she was fine but it’s like. hard to hide a nosebleed lol

I did that too sometimes!!!  
My mom, she tries very hard to hide that she’s worried about me, but I know she is.  
I hope one day I can do something really great. Something that will let me give back to her.

hey. i promise that you being safe and happy is literally the best gift you could ever give her.

Yeah, it’s just that sometimes it feels like I’ve been scared my whole life, and her too?  
It’s always something, you know?  
And right when I convince myself that things are settling down, I get reminded that they won’t.  
Today was a really bad day. I felt like I was seeing double.  
I went to the church and I swear I would see a pool of water where my flowers used to be, but when I reached out, it was just the flowers as usual.  
Sometimes I’d blink and see the city covered in plants, sometimes I’d blink and everything was being destroyed.  
I tried to go through the day, business as usual, right? But eventually I got too overwhelmed and I had to come home. Of course I scared mom again.  
I’m just feeling kind of defeated.

that sounds hard, i’m sorry you had to go through that  
i know it’s hard not to feel like you lost a battle, but i think it was great that you went home  
you were having a difficult time so you took yourself to a place where you felt comfortable to ride it out. that was good thinking. did it help?

It took a while, but it did help  
I hadn’t thought about it that way.

always think abt how you can protect yourself, okay?  
and you have me & tifa & barret. hell, vincent too.  
marlene thinks you hung the moon and everyone loves your flowers  
you said it yourself, you’re one of the people who gets to be happy with other people now too  
  


Thanks, Cloud.

don’t mention it  
and if it gets real bad i’ll see if i can’t find some time for us to do our weird planet mojo thing  
first one to bleed loses  
  


\--

**Ω🌻🌸Flower Boy🌸🌻Ω**

hey did you see the turk lol

Was that you?????  
I’m still wiping tears from my eyes!🤣🤣🤣

not my fault blue looks better on him  
bet the carpet doesn’t match the drapes anyway. nobody has hair that red

CLOUD!!!!!!!

\--

**Ω🌻🌸Flower Boy🌸🌻Ω**

hey guess what hellfire tastes like

What did you do?

may have licked a cracked materia 🥴

Why in the world would you do that?  
Are you okay? Do you need me to heal you?

i promise i’m good  
you know i get bored  
im trying to think of different ways to generate energy in smaller machinery  
in theory you should be able to replicate that with bigger stuff  
so if i can use a piece of materia that’s fractured but still has its own power as a battery  
and recharge it somehow  
it’s possible i can make things have a longer shelf life because materia lasts so long  
especially the stuff shinra churns out  
as for licking it. i genuinely just wanted to know what it’d taste like

How did you crack it?

used demi on it

Can I watch you do it next time?

you can HELP me do it

Awesome! I’m not licking materia with you though!

\--

**Ω🌻🌸Flower Boy🌸🌻Ω**

do you ever wonder what it would be like to have your brain to yourself

All the time!

\--

**Ω🌻🌸Flower Boy🌸🌻Ω**

How did you meet Vincent?

coffin 

😑😑😑

\--

**😐💛Cloud💛😐**

hey what the fuck is vincent wearing

Shut up my GOOOODS  
Please don't make me laugh. He's right there

ok but he looks like a rat someone stuffed into wrapping paper

Marlene asked if he would play princess with her  
And he was all “uhh uh I can be your knight” and she just.  
Lays face down on the floor and starts bawling. Nobody can get her to stand up  
(I think she’s just stressed because Barret has been so busy)  
So he told me to watch her and runs upstairs, and comes back down dressed in this cheap robe  
NO IDEA where he got it from

holy shit

It’s cute though right?  
He’s always so afraid to interact with her for some reason

can’t imagine why  
i’ve been messing with vincent since i was like eleven he knows how to talk to kids

You know good and well you are not “kids” Cloud

okay fair

\--

**😐💛Cloud💛😐**

So…………………….. About your Turk friend…..

you take that back

Why is he around so much?

they want me to join lol

Cloud?! That’s dangerous  
Please tell me you aren’t thinking about it  
And PLEASE tell me you’re not bringing him near the networks? Or the kids?

he’s not going anywhere i don’t want him to go, it’s fine  
he’s literally harmless  
& no i’m not joining them but it’s useful that i have their attention

How could that possibly be useful?  
You’re not invincible, Cloud  
How many times do you have to learn the hard way?  
One slip and it’s not just your head the consequences will be on

i get you  
listen do you want me to come down so we can talk about this in person?

Better be prepared for a fight if this plan isn’t bulletproof  
I mean it, Cloud  
You need to remember the people here and also you need to be less dumb about your own safety

i will i promise  
  


\--

**😐💛Cloud💛😐**

You know I have to make fun of you about the SOLDIER right

oh man

You KNOW I’m never gonna let you live that down right

ok but he’s a good guy  
like really really good  
literally one of the most good people i’ve ever met in my life

Hm…. is that the smell of bystander bootlicker on you???  
Cloud??? I didn’t??? Think????  
Not you too?????????????

tifa,

You’re making FRIENDS in ShinRa???  
You think anyone who works for them can be enticed away from all that money?  
I’l give a pass to the staff. The janitors and lunch folks and mechanics. It’s hard to find work that’s NOT with them and people have families  
But a SOLDIER????? Are you sure you know what you’re doing

it will literally all make sense soon  
give me a year and a half tops

You are literally the most ridiculous person I know.

yea i know  
august after next at the latest. remember

\--

**😐💛Cloud💛😐**

tifa   
bad brain day

I’m sorry  
Are you alone?  
Do you want someone to come get you?

yes pls

Where are you?

sect. 8

Okay, I’ll send Vincent  
Do you want to see Freida when you get here?

yes

Half an hour, Cloud  
It’ll be okay  
Want to do one of the games?

yes  
words?

Sky?

blue 

Tree?

green

Home?

mother

Road?

travel

Up?

sideways

House?

shelter

Lemon?

sour 

Time?

minute 

Rain?

water 

Soft?

baby 

White?

snow 

Checking in.  
Are you still in Sector 8?

yes

Thank you  
You want to ask this round?

no 

That’s okay  
Love?

everyone

\--

**😐💛Cloud💛😐**

aerith really likes utility boots. just so you know

Thanks  
You’re still annoying

don’t leave your notebooks where i can read them lol

\--

**😐💛Cloud💛😐**

Preeeeety sure Anna’s little sister has a crush on you

yeah  
how do i make it stop

Cloud if she likes you as you are there isn’t a thing you could do to scare her off

speaking from experience?

I am actually!  
You grow on people like a spiky fungus

but you think i’m okay right 🤔

You’re literally my favorite person in the world shut up

\--

**😐💛Cloud💛😐**

do you remember carlotta? works at the honeybee inn

Yeah! She’s super sweet. What about her?

saw her at mrs. nakamura’s today  
she looked awful. i’ve never seen her that sad  
she said one of her regulars has been scaring her lately  
he talks about the two of them “having a future together”  
and he’s been following her around on her off days  
so far hasn’t approached but he’s not as subtle as he thinks he is

Oh gods

do you think you could walk with her  
when you have the time i mean. i think it would be a huge comfort  
i’ll ask someone from the networks to walk with her too  
she feels like reporting him won’t go well because he pays so regularly  
and she’s afraid to make him angry

Do you know if he ever stops by 7th Heaven?

no, he works above the plate as a contractor  
literally only comes down for her  
if you feel like you’ve got it covered i trust you  
i won’t be free for the next few days

Sure thing  
Do you have Carlotta’s number?

yeah hold on  
[attachment]  
i’m reading up on the guy and i can give you his info  
that way you can scare the shit out of him and also beat him in the face and ass

Oh, you know it  
She’ll be safe, Cloud

update me ok  
[attachment]  
[attachment]  
[attachment]  
[attachment]

-**-**

**😐💛Cloud💛😐**

Okay, maybe you were right about the SOLDIER

i’m right about most things but tell me more

He just helped out around the bar  
Moved all the heavy stuff, got some lunch and overpaid.  
Didn’t ask questions when I told him not to look at stuff  
Did he not tell you?

no he didn’t  
that doesn’t surprise me though  
sounds like something zack would do  
you can trust him  
honestly if i can get everything in place you might be seeing more of him

**5.**

**INCIDENT REPORT**

**Reported by:** RHAPSODOS, GENESIS LUCA

**Date:** 3 January 00

**Title/Role**: SOLDIER 1ST CLASS / GENERAL OF SOLDIER 03

**Incident Number:** 467

**Location: **NORTH COMPOUND SOLDIER HQ

**Specific Area of Location:** TRAINING ROOM 001

**Additional person(s) involved: **SEPHIROTH

**Witnesses:** HEWLEY, ANGEAL

**Incident description including any events leading to or immediately following the incident: **

Simulation capabilities of training room 001 broken due to fire damage incurred in a fight.

**Employee explanation of events/Circumstances:**  
The oaf was testing my patience again. We broke the simulation.

**Resulting action executed, planned, or ** **recommended** **:** Take the payment for repairs out of my next paycheck and mine alone.

\--

**INCIDENT REPORT**

**Reported by: **BELK, AMOUS XANDER

**Date: **20 June 00

**Title/Role: **SOLDIER 2ND CLASS / COLONEL OF SOLDIER 12

**Incident Number: **9292

**Location: **EAST COMPOUND SOLDIER HQ

**Specific Area of Location: **INSTRUCTION ROOM 205

**Additional person(s) involved: **STRIFE, CLOUD / LE VECHEN, MARIE / JOHNSON, BRUNO 

**Witnesses: **Half of the entire fucking 7th regiment

**Incident description including any events leading to or immediately following the incident: **We were doing fucking PT and next thing I know Baldy Fucking Strife starts a fight with Le Vechen and Johnson. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, but Strife has been pushing it lately.

**Employee explanation of events/Circumstances:** Can’t you read? You fuckers are so annoying. What else can I say? What am I ever supposed to write here.

**Resulting action ****executed,** **planned****, or ****recommended****: **Frog marched the kid kicking and screaming and hissing and spitting to Lieutenant-General Fair’s office. The Lieutenant-General agreed to oversee his punishment—take it up with Director Lazard. If this kid can’t learn how to play nice some time soon I’m going to have to recommend a suspension or further action. I don’t doubt he was provoked because Le Vechen and Johnson are pigheaded and it takes a lot for him to be anything but a fucking sass, but he went overboard and I could tell he knew it. He’s alienated a significant amount of his regiment and this won’t help. It doesn’t matter how promising someone is if they can’t work with other people.

Recommend Le Vechen and Johnson serve the typical punishment after their Infirmary visit. I’ll review next steps with them as well. Strife’s a piece of work but these two have some growing up to do.

\--

**INCIDENT REPORT**

**Reported by: **SEPHIROTH

**Date: **05 August 00

**Title/Role: **SOLDIER 1ST CLASS / GENERAL OF SOLDIER 01 

**Incident Number: **5773

**Location: **WEST COMPOUND SOLDIER HQ

**Specific Area of Location: **SOLDIER HQ FLOOR 70 OFFICE OF THE GENERAL

**Additional person(s) involved: **HARMON, BARBIE /

**Witnesses: **HARMON, BARBIE

**Incident description including any events leading to or immediately following the incident: **Our floor had a blackout that lasted an unusually long time. My assistant made her way to my office complaining of a sweet smell. Her speech was slurred and she was unable to walk unaccompanied, but she seemed otherwise in control of herself.

**Employee explanation of events/Circumstances: **I believe the issue is clear. We experienced a security breach. The backup generators did not work. It is concerning that the intruder escaped my notice. I and my fellow SOLDIERs will always be able to see in the dark, but our unenhanced staff is at risk should something similar happen again. I swept the floor and could find no traces of any magic use or other tampering. I do not believe it is a coincidence that this happened while the rest of my staff were otherwise occupied.

**Resulting action ** **executed** **, ** **planned** **, or** ** recommended** **: **Poison magic smells of lilies. I used Esuna on Ms. Harmon and escorted her to the infirmary. I have given her leave for the next week. I have contacted the rest of the relevant authorities, and I will personally speak to the SOLDIERs Third Class who are on guard duty.

\--

**INCIDENT REPORT**

**Reported by: **CISSNEI

**Date: **10 August 00

**Title/Role: **DEPARTMENT OF ADMINISTRATIVE RESEARCH 05

**Incident Number: **1234

**Location: **SHINRA HQ FLOOR 85 PUBLIC SAFETY MAINTENANCE

**Specific Area of Location: **OFFICE OF HEIDEGGER, ELIAS ERHARD

**Additional person(s) involved: **YEAGER, BARBARA / FAIR, ZACKARY 

**Witnesses: **YEAGER, BARBARA

**Incident description including any events leading to or immediately following the incident: **Mr. Heidegger passed out in his office and incurred further injury during his fall. 

**Employee explanation of events/Circumstances: **Mr. Heidegger complained about having a migraine early in the morning. He didn’t look like he had gotten much sleep, but looked overwise healthy. Mrs. Yeager, his secretary, took longer than he would have liked to bring him papers he was asking for. He began to scream for her. I believe he was already feeling unwell and the strain caused him to shut down. His nose started to bleed, and then he fell down right where he was standing, hitting the corner of his desk and a filing cabinet on the way down. 

**Resulting action ** **executed** **, planned, or ** **recommended** **: **I delivered Mr. Heidegger to the nearest infirmary with the help of Lieutenant-General Fair, who I called for assistance. The doctor on call said that he should make a swift recovery. He recommended a few days of bedrest and a better diet. 

\--

**INCIDENT REPORT**

**Reported by: **NEFF, ALYSSA JEAN

**Date: **30 August 00

**Title/Role: **JUNIOR SCIENCE DEPT. STAFF

**Incident Number: **895

**Location: **SCIENCE DEPT HQ

**Specific Area of Location: **Lab G-65

**Additional person(s) involved: **PROFESSOR HOJO / DR. HOLLANDER / KOBAYASHI, HARU / BRAZHNIKOV, SACHA

**Witnesses: **PROFESSOR HOJO

**Incident description including any events leading to or immediately following the incident: **Dr. Hollander arrived for preliminaries on the commission from [REDACTED] to [REDACTED]. Dr. Hollander asked his assistants to help him unpack the [REDACTED]. The [REDACTED] exploded, fatally injuring Dr. Hollander and his assistants. Professor Hojo and Neff were injured. Lab G-65 is no longer safe for use. Whatever caused the explosion irreparably destroyed the package.

**Employee explanation of events/Circumstances: **I really don’t understand why this is asked of us. See above.

**Resulting action ** **executed** **, ** **planned** **, or recommended: **Cleanup crew was called to collect corpses. Professor Hojo and Neff were taken to the on-site infirmary. Professor Hojo will discuss the recruitment process for new staff with the executive board.

  
  


**6.**

🦇

Happy Birthday, Cloud. -Vincent.

wow really? damn  
checkpoint

Did you forget? -Vincent.  
Marlene is very excited to share some cake with you. -Vincent.  
Don’t forget to give your mother a call. She’s probably beside herself. -Vincent.

honestly i literally did  
thanks old man  
it’s really been a year. huh.

Don't sound so grave. You're sixteen. -Vincent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey ffvii's timeline makes no sense so, as i said in the first chapter, i'm having fun most of all so im not restricting myself to petty things like... ""canon""... who is that? i dont know her..... she sound shady tho
> 
> this semester is almost over (ONE EXAM LEFT!!!) and i have not been writing this even remotely in order, so the next few chapters are in various states of progress. i'm confident i'll have this completed & the rest ready for posting soon but! i'm not holding myself to any timelines because i need to recover from all the stress of the semester. it was so bad it took a physical toll on my body lmao
> 
> wanted to take the time to thank you guys so much for your kind words and your continued interest. i'm glad you're enjoying reading this as much as i'm enjoying writing it! i hope it's not annoying to have replies to comments? i wasnt sure if that was a bit much but i always reply to comments when i can... i like talking to ppl
> 
> catch u on the flip side!


	6. The World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo! :)

**1.**

Though Cosmo Canyon gets visits very rarely, no one ever comes to the Canyon without a purpose. 

Nanaki has seen an interesting variety of people. Haggard parents with wide-eyed children. City folk frustrated with their lot in life, smelling busily of nothing in particular. Backpackers who think they know it all. Some stay, but most leave. When Grandpa amusedly announces that they will have a very special visitor indeed, it’s all Nanaki can think about for hours. 

He does his rounds, to work off some of the energy. He stops by the Ginsbergs’ house to see if they have made any progress on the schematics for the huge turbines they would like to place at key areas in a bid to sustain the power grid after sundown. Solar panels are reliable but expensive, and their trick of using aged materia—which soaks up sunlight for some time before the magic leaves it completely—is frustratingly at the mercy of environmental interruptions. Progress is looking good on the turbines, but now it is a question of resources. It is always a question of resources in Cosmo Canyon. 

He helps Old Lady Greta carry her groceries back to her house (she gives him a homemade slice of pound cake, her customary reward for his time), and then scurries down the street of her neighborhood, voicing his offer of errands to the sky. He is occupied for hours. He receives pets and wet kisses from the children who have learned that he is no danger to them.

After it all, when the sun has started to go down and the materia lamps have started to emit a faint light, Nanaki runs around the Cosmo Candle as he did often as a much younger pup, trying to see if he can keep his gaze trained on the flame as he runs. When he’s dizzy to the point that his ears have started ringing he makes a lazy seat on the ground, huffing tiredly. The sky is now dark and the breeze is especially nice here. He falls into a light doze.

After some time, a hand delves into his scruff, nails scratching right into the sensitive skin hidden beneath his fur. This spot always feels a bit like what he imagines human children feel when they’re tickled, delightful yet quietly panic inducing all at once, abruptly pulling him from his sleep. “Stop, grandpa,” he rumbles out, breaking into a large yawn. 

He hears a laugh. “Wow, finally someone gives me the respect I deserve. Mind your elders and all that? Nobody really follows that if you have a skincare routine that keeps you looking especially young.” 

While it’s not a voice he recognizes, none of his instincts call out to him in alarm, and the young man’s voice is dryly straightforward. Nanaki stretches as another yawn overtakes him.

With a grunt, the visitor pulls his head and shoulders into his lap, and with adjustment, wiry arms curl around Nanaki’s neck. A face presses into the top of his head. The stranger sighs, form swelling briefly against his back. People in town (mostly excited children) have attempted to do this before, and while he tolerates it, it always feels a little bit like a trap. There is nothing in this hold but a curious sense of security.

“It’s so good to see you again, Nanaki.” A hand strokes over the plume of his hair.

“Who are you?” Nanaki mumbles. 

“Definitely someone that cares about you.” 

The embrace is nice. The visitor sounds like he’s very sad. Nanaki recognizes it as the kind of lonely sad that made you crave hugs, which erases the last of his apprehension. Between one breath and the next, he is asleep.

\--

Grandpa asks their visitor, who introduces himself as Cloud, if he will join them in the observatory upstairs. 

“Are you feeling well?”

Whenever Nanaki glances curiously up, he is rewarded with a blank stare in return. He wonders if he might have hallucinated their breezy rest by the candle. 

“I’m breathing, which is pretty promising,” Cloud (and what an odd name!) sighs, falling heavily into Grandpa’s desk chair.

“I was pleased to hear you would be making your way to our humble little town.” Grandpa says, following with the hooting laugh that bursts from him whenever somebody’s done something especially interesting. 

Nanaki settles back on his haunches, looking unashamedly between them as they speak. Nobody ever said Grandpa is normal, but him talking to a complete stranger as if they are old friends is new, and despite Cloud’s joke about his age, he does not look at all like an adult human.

“Happy to be here. You have no idea how nice it is to be out of the city.” 

The city? Cloud smells nothing like the city. There is no trace mako tang, no smokiness. He smells a bit like Grandpa does—faint and nondescript enough to be memorable because of how unremarkable it is when compared to others’ scent. 

“Why have you come, really?” Grandpa floats over to the radiator, putting his hands by it for warmth. Nanaki knows that he knows it has not worked for some time.

“I have two favors to ask of you.” 

“Hoo hoo. One scarily big, and the other pacifying small, I expect?” 

Cloud leans forward in his seat, clasping his hands together. 

“I know you can handle it.”

Nanaki lets out a distressed noise, “Handle _ what _?” 

Visibly frustrated, Cloud’s fingers flex from where they’re laced together, and his left leg is jumping restlessly.

Grandpa turns around, his hands clasped behind his back. When he smiles, it upsets the whiskers of his flowing beard, disrupts the placement of deep folds and wrinkles on his face. 

“Cloud has a friend in Gaia, and he needs help saving her.”

Learning this does nothing to assuage Nanaki’s confusion. Grandpa has been speaking of the evil of ShinRa’s reactors and dominion for as long as Nanaki’s memory stretches. He also thought that the last people to commune with the planet died long ago, aside from Grandpa, who has been old Nanaki’s entire life and is only getting older.

“Do you want the small favor or the big one first?” 

“Go on with the small, if you please,” Grandpa says, floating lazily towards them. He returns Nanaki’s helpless look with another ripple of his moustache. 

“Can my mom and my dog stay here?” Cloud asks, nails digging into flesh until red blossoms around where they rest..

“Yes. Do you want them here because of the big favor?” 

“Yes.” 

A moment passes in uncomfortable silence. Unsure of what to do, Nanaki plops down on his stomach. Then, they begin trading words at such a fast pace that his neck hurts from looking at them. 

“What is your big favor?” 

“I want Cosmo Canyon as a checkpoint for me and my people. And if you could share what keeps the canyon running, that would also be a huge help. Its planning, your energy, the houses, the streetlights, hell even how you compost—everything. Literally everything.” 

“Why?” 

“Because the world will need it soon.” 

“Why?” 

A frustrated growl. “Because ShinRa is part of what’s killing the stupid thing and she _ won’t shut up about it _ so they have to go _ . _” 

“Oh ho? Dissatisfied with your job?”

“No, I realize I need to do this. I just want this to be the last time, and I feel like it could be. I’m close. I’m _ so _ close. SOLDIER cadets are on break right now, and this might be the last chance I get to make sure everything is in order.” 

Grandpa makes a humming sound. He looks unfamiliarly pensive. “You realize that if this information makes its way to the wrong people, you put us all at risk.” 

“I’ll protect you. Please believe me when I say that.”

“How?” 

Cloud smiles with all teeth and no warmth. “I know people.” 

\--

The next few days are confusing and terribly interesting. 

Grandpa kindly but firmly shuts him out of any further conversations he has with Cloud, all but banishing him from the observatory because he knows how good Nanaki’s hearing is. It smarts, not being able to listen in—he is no longer a knobby-kneed pup, he is Cosmo Canyon’s guardian! 

He asks if Cloud would like to join him on his daily run, hoping to pry answers from him. He is immediately stonewalled, which is infuriating. Why tease him with information he can’t be privy to and expect him to be content with scraps? 

The anger passes, over time, because Cloud shows up the next day right on time for patrol, and it becomes a routine over the next week. He has stories to tell about his travels that seem so far beyond the scope of reality. He speaks about falling from a rickety bridge in the snow, and then of a submarine deep in the mysterious ocean. He talks about how the Planet is trying its best to repair itself, and how he’s been travelling every corner he can reach to find ways to help that process along.

He laughs when Nanaki asks him if it’s frightening to travel alone. “First of all, I’m never alone. Secondly, it can get a little lonely at times, but you get over that quick. Do you want to travel, Nanaki?”

“No,” Nanaki sputters, knowing right away that he answered this question far too quickly. “I have to protect the townspeople.” 

Cloud ruffles his hair, and Nanaki is once again reminded of that first day—of a hug and the scratch of fingers on his scalp, under the candle’s ember glow. He wants to ask about what was said, but then catches the look on Cloud’s face, resigned and a little bit amused.

“Hold onto that, for now.” 

\--

Grandpa tells him to show Cloud to the homes of the people involved in powering Cosmo Canyon. They are all curious about this new visitor. Mrs. Ginsberg exclaims about how young he is, but her passion for her work quickly moves her to speak on it. This process is repeated with just about every person he speaks to.

Cloud and the townsfolk talk shop, throwing around jargon that goes entirely over his head. Cloud takes notes obsessively into a spiral bound notebook during each meeting. When it comes to solar panels, what system size would they use for different kinds of homes? What are appropriate wind speeds for turbines of this size, that size, the other? What sustainable efforts do they feel are most pressing right now, barring mako reactors? When rotating crops, which ones would put back the necessary nutrients into the earth to keep it fertile? 

It’s fascinating. When Nanaki steals a glance at Cloud’s notebook, hoping to get more context, he finds that whatever Cloud has written in his notebook is not in Common. Nanaki stares at the pages for quite some time, fascinated by the schematics and arrays and strange characters. It feels as though something is crawling around in his head. Sometimes the letters shift in ways that don’t seem natural. He never looks at the notebook again. 

Despite his growing confusion, chaperoning the talks is a thrilling new chore if only because it breaks his rhythm, and because Cloud scratches at a place just behind his ears sometimes, soothing some low hurt in his chest. 

\--

“Do you trust him, Grandpa?” 

Grandpa levels him with an inquisitive look. “Do you?”

Nanaki says, after a moment of hesitation, “I don’t know.” 

Grandpa smiles. “He’s trustworthy, my boy. I don’t doubt that he means to do well. It’s the fact that the rest of the world cannot be predicted that troubles me. He thinks that he has everything in order, but reality rarely works like that.”

“What’s he trying to do?” 

“He wants to make sure the planet survives.” Grandpa sighs, heavily. “It’s not as though we have any other choice, at this point. Someone has to do it.”

He is too afraid to ask what that means.

\--

When the time comes for Cloud to leave, Nanaki fails to hide his disappointment. Cloud, wrapped up in his travel gear with his travel pack on his back, kneels with his arms spread wide. 

“Can I have a hug?” 

Nanaki trots forward, bumping his nose into Cloud’s shoulder. Cloud’s breath leaves him in a quiet grunt as they make contact, but he doesn’t lose his balance, easily shifting to accommodate him. He gives Nanaki another hug that feels like maybe it should alarm him, but the placement of arms around his shoulders reminds him briefly of kinder days, when Seto was alive. 

“Good luck.” 

“Hey, don’t look so down. I’ll have my mom and my dog here in a few months. They’re both pretty interesting, and my mom will feed you whether you ask her to or not.” 

“I like food,” Nanaki mumbles.

Cloud laughs. “Yeah, I know.” 

\--

Cosmo Canyon sees more foot traffic, over the months. Each new arrival stops to speak with Grandpa, and then with Elder Hargo, and then they spend a few nights at the Inn. Some bring supplies—food, or books of all genres, sometimes materia, often protective gear. 

Most of the people are relatively nondescript. A young man with a shocking amount of freckles and an awful sunburn who’s excellent at record keeping. A woman with a mole under her eye and a pretty grin who can crunch numbers with systematic efficiency. A sturdy looking older woman who helped clean Grandpa’s cluttered observatory with quiet determination. A rotating queue of quiet, capable people drift through, and with each visitor, Grandpa’s worry diminishes inch by inch.

Others are memorable mostly because he has never seen anyone like them before. There’s a man with glowing eyes, much to Grandpa’s initial concern, and Nanaki will never forget the visitor with a claw for a hand. His angular eyes are a deep red color, stark on a pale face framed by flyaway black hair that dusted his shoulders. He comes bearing a box filled with an assortment of tools and letters. He gifts Nanaki with an apple (“Cloud said you might enjoy it.”), which he’s never seen before in real life. The flavor is wonderful, and he entertains himself chewing at leftover skin for what must be half an hour. 

“Am I allowed to know your name?” Nanaki asks, as he asks every one of Cloud’s friends that passes through. 

(He gets strange monikers pretty often. Gibbon. Binturong. Shoebill. Pegasus. Tanuki. He’s still privately laughing to himself about identical triplets, three short girls with warm brown skin and riotously coily hair who looked more huggable than dangerous, calling themselves the Knights of The Round.)

He’s surprised when the man answers truthfully, “I’m Vincent.” 

Nanaki blinks. “Really?”

Vincent snorts, “Cloud knows he won’t get me to call myself something ridiculous. If I don’t want someone to know my name, I’ll handle it.”

Nanaki first eyes his clawed hand, then the large revolver strapped conspicuously to his hip, and believes him.

\--

Early one morning, Vincent comes bearing a huge black case on the back of a truck. This box is handled with care that seems unwarranted, and is taken immediately into Grandpa’s observatory. Nanaki has been barred from many of these little meetings, but Grandpa gives him a sidelong glance from where he’s quietly vibrating with anticipation and lets out a laugh, so he trails them inside. Vincent props the case up onto one of his shoulders, apparently unbothered by shouldering its considerable size. Cloud keeps strange friends. 

“So he did it?” Grandpa asks, and then he laughs again, as if his astonishment is pulling it from his chest without his permission. 

“That child makes me regret things every day,” Vincent confirms, bending down. With a series of clicks the case is opened. Nanaki can’t contain a gasp at the sight of the large, jagged crystal within. It emits a gentle glow, its soothing green light bouncing off of the walls of its container.

“Is that a materia?” Nanaki cries, unable to resist the urge to stuff his snout into the box. 

An overwhelmingly strong ozone scent fills his nose, making his eyes water. A crackling ripple pulses through his fur. He sneezes. Grandpa floats over to him and runs his hands along his back. When he withdraws, spreading his fingers, Nanaki can see an almost virulent green stretching restlessly between them. 

“This is a materia, indeed, my boy. One of the rarest kinds on the planet! Ho ho.”

Nanaki feels wobbly and strangely energized in a way that is hard to categorize as pleasant or completely awful. Grandpa continues to stroke his back, and with each pass, whatever magic feedback that clings to him slowly dissipates, leaving tiredness in its wake.

“Cloud plans to have three more of these sent your way, if you’ll accept this first one for safekeeping. Please answer me honestly. Do you want to do this? If you say no, you’ll have our protection no matter what.”

Grandpa draws closer. “Young man, there is nothing you can do to stop me.”  
  


**2\. **

Shera has a routine. It keeps her grounded, it minimizes the chances of crying, and above all it is soothing. 

She wakes up at 4:30 in the morning, every morning. Thirty minutes are devoted to freshening up for the day. Then she cooks breakfast, so that Cid will have something to eat when his internal clock wakes him. By the time he comes down, she will be out of the house, scarfing down her own breakfast on the way to whoever has asked for her help for the day. 

When she opens the door this morning, toast in her mouth, she nearly bumps into the teenager who was apparently about to knock on their door. Rocket Town is a tight-knit community, populated mostly by former employees of the Space Program, their families, and business. Visitors are, by and large, tourists. 

The blond boy who looks up at her and says, “Good morning,” is not someone she’s ever seen in her life, but he looks familiar anyway. He does not have the look of a tourist, is outfitted in a denim jacket, cargo pants and sturdy boots. His hands, covered in fingerless gloves, are tight around the straps of a knapsack that is as large as his torso—and it has a bedroll attached. Shera glances over her shoulder, and then she steps out of the house, turning around to lock the door. Ignoring her stomach’s protest, she removes the toast from her mouth.

“Good morning. Can I help you, sweetheart?” She asks.

“Is Mr. Highwind home?” 

“He’s asleep. Is there anything I can do for you? Can I pass along a message?” 

“No, thank you. I’ll just come back later.” The boy says, firm but not unkind. He runs a hand restlessly through the short spikes of his hair, adjusts his large backpack, and makes as if to turn away. 

“Wait,” Shera says. 

No child should look as serious as this one does! She’s never been looked at as intently as she is right now. 

“Do you have a place to stay? I could show you to the Inn.” 

He thanks her, introduces himself as Cloud, and follows her to the Shanghai. When she presses him for answers about his visit, he says only that he needs help on a major project and he thinks Cid would be able to provide that for him in spades. It’s both an interesting and mildly concerning admission. ShinRa had worked tirelessly to erase word of the Space Program—and, by extension, Cid—from the public eye. It had only been a burgeoning program at its peak, so it wasn’t hard to do. In any case, it’s enough to convince her that he’s serious about whatever he needs.

Shera buys him a meal, because he’s young and tired-looking. He’s lightly tanned in some places but for the most part badly sunburnt, the slope of his shoulders low. It pains her to look at him. She waits until he is half-finished with his food to ask, “Do you work for ShinRa?” 

He eyes a head of broccoli with quiet disgust and says, “Yup.” 

“How old are you?” 

He almost says something else. She can tell by the shape of his mouth, which quickly flattens into a thin line. Then, he says, “Sixteen?” 

Gently, she asks, “Are you lying to me, honey?” 

“Sure am.”

Fair enough. She decides not to press him further on that front.

Shera orders her own plate, because a single slice of toast for breakfast is never really adequate, and it’s nice to have company that is not frustrated with or pitying of her. She learns that Cloud is a SOLDIER cadet, on break before his exams. He’d taken the first bus out of the city the moment the past cycle of instruction ended, hoping to get a head start on his idea before the loss of his freedom for the next few months. 

“What makes you so sure you won’t be able to leave again?” 

Cloud snorts. “I know you’ve worked with ShinRa, ma’am. It’s for life with them.” 

“Why work for them then?” 

“Best way to get what I want,” He says, shrugging. 

They finish their breakfast in companionable silence. Against her better judgement, Shera agrees to introduce him to Cid. He doesn’t seem like the type to crumple under Cid’s scrutiny—a quality she envies. 

\--

Coming home at the end of the day is always an exercise in the bittersweet. Shera is pleased as always to return to her space, with its familiar smells and sounds. By this time, Cid will be at the living room table tinkering away at something, and when she comes through the door he’ll spare her a crotchety look and say something like “About time,” the closest thing to a greeting she’ll get, but he’ll also have dinner served. It’s the quietest part of any day, and her favorite.

She does not get her greeting this time. Today, Cid sees that there’s someone behind her, and his brow furrows.

“The fuck’re you?” Cid asks, around a cigarette.

“Name’s Cloud.” 

“That’s a stupid ass name.” 

“I like it just fine.” 

“Whoop-de-doo,” Cid sneers. “Shera, why’d you bring this little shit in here?” 

“Captain, Cloud has something he’d like to share with you. Go on,” she tells him, deeply curious about what’s brought him here. 

With a sigh, Cloud makes his way over to the table. 

“Woah, woah, woah, I don’t know who you think you are—”

“I’m your last hope for getting into space.” Cloud interrupts him. 

Cid lets out a bark of laughter. He looks up at Shera with a frantic kind of amusement, like he’s thrown by the gall of this kid and has to look at someone in commiseration or he’ll lose his mind. He takes a slow drag of his cigarette, and then blows out a plume of smoke into her face, which she endures with a wince.

“Shera, what the fuck were you thinking? Have you lost your rabid mind?” 

“Don’t talk to her like that.” Cloud snaps. 

Before Cid can offer a retort, he continues. “Just so you know, there really was a leak in the oxygen tank. There’s no way that can be proven to you without you starting up Number 26 and putting yourself in danger, but just know that she,” and he pauses to point at Shera, “is the only reason you’re still alive.” 

Shera, feeling distinctly unmoored, falls heavily into the nearest chair. Wordlessly, Cid grinds his cigarette into his ashtray. Number 26, through some silent vow, is something that she and Cid have agreed never to speak of again. Oh, the shadow of it lingers in the air between them, the source of his resentment and her growing self-hate. What if she had been wrong? What if last minute jitters pushed her to seeing imperfections where there were none? Cid is brilliant, and she’d been a particularly bright student whose hard work and good attitude had her climbing the ranks perhaps a little faster than was deserved for someone of her age.

Cloud is rifling busily through his knapsack, like what he said hadn’t just chilled her and Cid into silence. “I have an offer for you. First, I want you to have this.” 

He unrolls a world map, and slides it over to Cid’s side of the table. It is crossmarked in places that have little rhyme or reason. “This is the location of every major area on the Planet that has oil. With some refinement, it can be used to power both the Tiny Bronco and an airship. ShinRa stole your last one and they aren’t going to give it back. They also aren’t going to reinstate the Space Program any time soon. But I can get you into space_ and _ help you get back at them.” 

“Kid, how do I know you aren’t just here workin’ for ShinRa in the first place?” Cid asks. 

“I do work for ShinRa.” He reaches into his pocket and flashes a ShinRa Electric ID card at the two of them. In the photo, he’s entirely devoid of hair. “I’ve been a SOLDIER cadet for a year because in Midgar, being ShinRa property grants you freedoms you wouldn’t have else wise. Everyone in ShinRa’s military has a licence to kill, do you know that? Even cadets. The salary is shit, but it’s better than none at all. People ask less questions when you flash it around. But I’m not with them because I care about ShinRa. In fact, I actively want to destroy ShinRa and everything it stands for.” 

“Why?” Shera asks. She immediately regrets it, because both sets of blue eyes turn on her with intensity. 

“Why not?” Is Cloud’s baffling answer. 

He pulls more things out of his bag. He unearths a small black container and pushes it towards Cid. “There’s a sample of some of the oil. Test it, do whatever you want with it, there’s more where that came from.” 

A thick folder. “Blueprints for you to springboard off of for an airship. I can get you the stuff you need to make it.” 

Another folder. “I really need your advice for pulling these off.” 

Shera pulls this folder towards her. Cid gives her a look of warning, obviously gearing up for another round of yelling. Without looking up from his bag, Cloud says, “If you’re interested in this, your participation is contingent on whether or not you can learn to show her the proper amount of respect.” 

That drives Cid into action. “You little punk! I don’t know what kinda shit ass drugs you kids are on these days, but you’re not gonna march up into my home and tell me how to speak. I’ll say whatever I want when I want, how I want to, and I don’t care about your little plans neither!” 

And this is a bald-faced lie. Cid is many things, and what he is most of all is curious and contrary. He lives for the pursuit of knowledge, always working, always reading and creating and striving forward. Someone in town once bet him he couldn’t build a functioning robot and he’d had a tiny little thing that could sweep floors and sing little jingles created within two weeks. No one tells him what he can and cannot do—he will always find ways to uproot expectations with an almost boyish glee.

He’s interested, Shera knows. He’s so interested. He is a bear and Cloud has poked him with a particularly shiny stick. Cid was probably hooked the moment he heard the word “blueprints.” By the tiny little smile on the young man’s face, he knows that. 

“Prove it.” He says, pulling out folder after folder. “Look over this with me. Stop being the worst. If you’re not interested, you’ll probably never hear from me again.” 

Cid reaches into his pockets for another cigarette, lights it with a hand shaking with familiar anger. “Little asshole.” 

“Go on, Shera.” Cloud tells her. 

She looks into the folder. She finds blueprints and lists inside. Wind turbines, from the rotor blades to the base. Solar panels of no make she’s familiar with, of varying sizes. The lists are mostly composed of materials, save for one that, confusingly enough, just lists animals. Lion, tiger, bear, echidna (this one has a large question mark next to it), spider-monkey, boar. 

“You’re looking for alternatives for mako.” Shera breathes, unable to contain the professional curiosity building within her. 

“It’s a start,” he says, with a nod. “We need more. I think you and the Captain, and your people, will be able to help. If you keep looking you’ll see plans for energy with materia. Folks in Cosmo Canyon realized that if they’re left out in the sun, they take in some of its energy and carry a glow for some time. They mostly use it to light the way at night, and they mostly use materia that’s almost run out of its magic. But what if there’s a way we can use that for something else? I’ve tested it with like, radios and stuff, to some success.” 

His handwriting is a beautiful, looping cursive script, almost as neatly made as a computer font. Despite herself, it makes Shera smile to see a note that reads, _ Why the fuck do they call it Thunder magic? Anyways this shit can probably be put into circuit boards, _ next to a rough plan of a printed circuit board, where the goal is apparently to use infinitesimally small fragments of materia to serve as an energy source to be carried through conductive material. It’s obvious he’s not an expert, but his knowledge is not that of a layman’s, either.

Cid snatches up the thickest folder. He skims through Cloud’s airship plans with a critical eye, but some of the anger tightening the skin around his eyes leaves him gradually. He’s impressed.

“Why an aluminum skin instead of a steel one?” He asks, at length. 

Cloud pulls a granola bar from his bag, opens it, and bites into it with a crunch. (It’s a brand that Shera knows well, because Cid had complained bitterly about how tough they were with frustrating regularity. She’d stopped buying them after curiously trying to take a bite, wondering if he was just giving her a hard time. She’d feared, if only for a moment, that she may have chipped a tooth.) Some of Cloud’s teeth are pointed, she notices, and not in any way that looks natural. 

“Aluminium is lighter. You can fold it over itself a bunch of times to make the skin thicker, if you want, which will reduce fatigue and bucking.” Another easy bite into the world’s toughest granola bar. Another flash of those strange teeth.

Cid hums. He’s lost in the excitement of this. Shera is, too.

“And whaddya need an airship for?”

“I need to get people places. My main deliverymen is getting sick and tired of me sending him all over the world in a crappy truck.” 

It’s not a lie, this much is clear in the wry fondness in Cloud’s face, but it’s not the whole truth either, and they all know it. 

Cloud reaches into his bag for one last folder. “And this is how you’ll get into space. What will happen at launch needs to be refined. I don’t want any emissions lingering in the atmosphere. But this will work.”

Cid reads over the plans for a long time. Shera makes them some tea. Cloud pulls his legs up into the chair, and hugs his knees as he waits for his to cool. Shera sips her own as she looks over his work. It’s deeply impressive, and obviously the culmination of hours on hours of dedication. She knows some people in the Science Department who would have sobbed with excitement reading it. She can’t help scurrying away to get a pen so that she can leave her own suggestions in the margins. Cloud answers each of her questions with patience. Cid asks nothing, but maintains his focus through the rest of his pack of cigarettes, and soon the room is filled with a pungent haze. 

Finally, Cid leans back in his chair, which creaks under his sturdy weight. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Why should I believe any of this?”

Shera interjects. “Captain, look at all this. This could get him killed. He’s sixteen.” 

“Yeah, and? Join ShinRa and you’re as good as an adult, and it’s obvious this little fucker’s got drive. You should know something about that, yourself.” Cid points out, scowling.

Cloud runs a hand through his hair. “My mom had me when she was fifteen years old. My dad’s gone, don’t know the guy and don’t care to. The rest of our family left a little before I was born. And pretty much her entire life has just been… centered on me, somehow. Loving me, worrying about me, feeding me, protecting me. Maybe it’s not healthy, but that’s how we are. When I left to join SOLDIER, I know I broke her heart, but I had to. She deserves to live in a world that’s not constantly ripping itself apart at the seams because it can’t handle what we’re doing to it. She, and so many others, deserve to, ugh, I don’t know. We shouldn’t be working away at something one fucking company holds out of reach because they don’t value life, and—” He stops talking to take in a deep breath, eyes round with frustration. 

“Listen, I know I’m not making any sense. Long story short, ShinRa hasn’t been around for that long if you really think about it, yet they have the whole world in the palm of their hands, and they’re squeezing it dry. It needs to be healthy for the people who are here now, and the people who will come after. I know people, I have money and resources and people that trust me, and most importantly I have a plan to make this all better.” 

Cid takes another drag of his cigarette. “Swear on your momma?” 

“Fuck you,” Cloud says. 

Cid laughs, and there’s a gravelly warmth in it that Shera hasn’t heard in a long time. “You’re alright, ya little fucker. This rocket… this is good stuff. Needs some improvement, but that’s just how this stuff works. Where’d you learn about all this?” 

Cloud snorts. “Someone who smoked just as much as you do.”

“Shera, get me another pack of cigarettes.” 

Cloud clears his throat. After a beat, Cid tacks on a “Please.” 

When Shera returns, she finds them mid-conversation. 

“—gotta realize how fucking suspicious you are, bud.” 

“Everybody likes a little mystery.” 

“If you fuckin’ double-cross me, I won’t feel the tiniest bit of remorse about beatin’ your ass.” 

“And if you double-cross me, I won’t feel the tiniest bit of remorse about killing you.” With these words, all traces of dry humor are gone from Cloud’s voice.

“Kid,” Cid sighs, as he lights a new cigarette, “if I stab you in the back ShinRa will literally erase you from the face of the Planet, and then me n’ Shera for even giving you the time of day. Give it a rest, you damn tree-hugger.” 

“So is this a yes?”

“This is a yes from me,” Cid revises. “I can’t speak for anyone else. People here got families. You want their help, you speak to ‘em yourself.” 

Cloud looks at Shera, making her yelp. She hadn’t thought either of them noticed her standing there. 

“Are you interested?” 

Shera can’t help a hysterical little giggle. “I think this is the most fun I’ve had in years.”

\--

Cloud talks to the rest of the town. Everyone hears him out, after Cid sends his word of approval. They all look to their Captain with affection and respect. Some are eager to stretch their mental muscles. Others are reluctant, and rightfully so. This can charitably be called a fool’s errand. The most honest assessment of it is that it’s a suicide mission. Still, something is telling her that this crazy little teenager has something up his sleeve. He tells them of the growing network of people working with him. They’ll visit, soon, to discuss shop and bring bits of what they need in increments. Some curious professionals in different disciplines will stop by to discuss collaboration on energy. If they have something they need to move, it may stay for a little while until the next courier comes to pick it up. Once a week, he’ll be taken to a remote location where he can start working on his airship. 

Cloud promises that no matter what, they will “literally always” be protected. Shera asks how that is, but this is one of the many things Cloud is close-lipped on. There are a lot of questions left unanswered, all of which require a considerable amount of the trust her mother would have laughingly called a leap of faith.

They spend hours hashing out the finer details of Cloud’s work. He’d had solid plans, but he is not an engineer. Shera hadn’t realized how much she missed this—crunching numbers, running measurements and scenarios, weighing the pros and cons of plastic over ceramic, calculating projections, all of it. Cid speaks to her with the most civility he’s practice in some time, which is to say that he is still crass, but is visibly trying his hardest not to direct it her way.

Cloud is, in his own way, the funniest person Shera has met for some time. He’s always got to have the last word, which drives Cid insane. He’s got weird names for things, an opinion on pretty much everything, and is deeply passionate about his hate of mosquitos. He eats and eats and eats some days, and on others declares that he’ll disintegrate if he so much as tastes anything. There are some moments where she’s sure she’s seeing the goofy child he could be without the weight of the world on his shoulders, and she hopes that it will come to pass.

“Shera! What’s the name of the element with atomic number 90?” He asks once, as they’re discussing electronics. 

“Thorium?” She tells him, glancing up from her work. He’s completely stalled a conversation about wire coating.

“Stupid!” He cries. “Thor’s my people’s god of war! The fuck’s he got to do with metal?” 

“I think you’d have to ask the scientist who named it that, sweetie,” She answers, puzzled. 

“One day, in the Lifestream. If I ever get the chance to stay there.” He sighs. 

Cid coughs a laugh around his cigarette. “You lose all your marbles in the womb or something?” 

“Captain, I lost them long before that.” 

Tickled pink by his seriousness, Shera hides her laugh behind her hand. 

\--

Cloud shows up at their house with a visitor one morning. 

“This is my delivery man, Vincent.” 

“And when in the fresh tap-dancing fuck did you get here?” Cid demands. 

No one enters Rocket Town without him knowing. 

“Early,” Vincent says. 

He stands at Cloud’s back, towering over him by at least a foot. He’s pale and dark haired, and his all-black ensemble makes him look a bit like a bat. Shera meets his bright red gaze and quickly averts her eyes, feeling strangely like he’s just seen into her. 

Then, he looks down at Cloud. “And I’m not your delivery man.” 

He twists Cloud’s ear, which Cloud accepts with a growling noise of complaint. 

“Look here, Cloud. I like you. I like your little idea. But if you’re going to have people marching in and outta here without telling me first, we can just call it quits now.” 

It’s an empty threat, but his point is made, because it earns Cloud another twist of the ear from his companion as he mutters an apology. 

“Sorry, just. You know how I told you we’d have runners? This guy is in charge of it all. He was in the area, so I figured I’d get him acquainted while I have the time.” 

“A pleasure,” Vincent deadpans. 

“Why the hell you dressed like that?” Cid asks, looking him up and down. “The fuck kinda glove you got on your hand? Wait, is that a prosthetic?” 

“Usually, it keeps people from asking questions.” 

Cloud actually laughs aloud. “Vincent, meet Cid Highwind. He’ll always have questions.” 

“Howdy. People ‘round here call me Captain.” Cid says, as he lights his morning cigarette. 

“I’m Shera. Pleased to meet you.” 

“Manners, Cloud. You might follow their lead.”

No one who knows better would ever say that Cid has manners. The thought of it is ridiculous enough that Shera tries and fails to stifle a gasping laugh into her shirt collar as she scurries away from them to fix herself a plate of breakfast.

\--

Oddly enough, Cid and Vincent get on like a house on fire. Cid does some work on Vincent’s truck (which is genuinely as crappy as Cloud said it was), Vincent asks a question about how it works, and this opens the door to an odd but endearing friendship. Vincent is apparently older than he looks—older than all of them, in fact—and endlessly patient. Cid needs people who will both encourage and temper the tide of his more intense moods. They play cards, all of which Vincent loses, because he apparently has no concept of most modern amusements. Cid’s delighted to tell Vincent of technological advances he’d apparently missed out on, and is curious about Vincent’s travels. (“You’re like two grandmothers,” Cloud complains.)

He answers questions about Cloud that Cloud himself always finds ways to avoid, with all the familiarity of a parent eager to embarrass their child. He has known Cloud since he was small. Shera clutches her chest at tales of the precious child who’d lost his last baby tooth tumbling playfully down hills with his pet, pausing only to present it to Vincent for safekeeping before running right back to the top to do it all over again. 

“Were his teeth always that sharp?” She asks. 

Vincent does not know what she’s talking about. Later, she hears Cloud laugh confusedly when Vincent tells him to smile.

\--

Two weeks after his arrival, Cloud announces that it will soon be time for him to return to Midgar. Shera, who has learned how to hide her emotions very well, does not let her disappointment show. She will miss his and Vincent’s company, and is quietly afraid that Cid’s improving attitude will revert the moment Cloud has his back turned. How silly, to feel so strange about losing a safeguard in the form of a teenager she is of a height with. 

He gives Cid a narrow look and says, “Don’t forget what I said about being the worst.” 

She doesn’t hide her laugh this time. Cloud solemnly tells her that he wishes there were more people like her in the world.

A few of the townsfolk gather to watch as they load Vincent’s truck for departure. Vincent fusses over a particularly large box, which takes up almost the entirety of his trunk. He glances up at them, offering Shera the smallest of smiles and nodding at Cid. Cid returns the nod, looking uncharacteristically solemn. He lights up a cigarette, briefly facing away from her so that the wind will not carry the initial plume of smoke into her face—a new habit.

“You’ll hear from us soon,” Cloud calls out. 

He looks particularly small hanging out of the truck’s window. It’s high enough from the ground that he’d needed a boost from Vincent to step into it, and with his hair growing in odd spears, the breeze gives him the same windswept look of the young adults who pass by Rocket Town in the middle of a road trip.

“Next time you bring your skinny asses here, it better be with good fuckin’ news!” Cid calls. 

“Count on it!” Cloud replies, as Vincent throws up a hand in farewell.

Then, with one sputtering crank of the pick-up’s engine, they are off. The crowd slowly disperses, murmuring, but Shera stands with Cid until they can no longer see the truck in the horizon. He puffs away, occasionally facing away from the breeze with a little grumble.

She heaves a great sigh. “What have we gotten ourselves into, Captain?”

Cid chuckles darkly. “International crime, mostly likely.” 

He throws the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and flattens it with the heel of his boot. 

“Hey,” he says. “Help me get started on a way to take Number 26 down safely. It doesn’t really got a use anymore. The ShinRa stop by, we’ll tell ‘em it was a safety hazard. Not like it’s a fuckin’ lie.”

She smiles, suddenly understanding his melancholy air. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

“Oh, fuck. Shit, damn, ass. Please help me get started on a way to take down Number 26?” He hedges. 

When she nods, he gives her a lopsided grin. He throws his arm over her shoulders as they walk back inside, chattering companionably away about Number 26’s dimensions. Shera is reminded strongly of her days as a bright-eyed aide, ready to smash thresholds. 

**3.**

It doesn’t even feel like it’s been a year since Elijah made his way up the plate and enlisted. His nineteen years of age have passed in a blur, his birthday met anticlimactically with brownies decorated with candles they aren’t allowed to light in the barracks. The brownies had been baked poorly—if earnestly—by the guys in his bunker. He’s too embarrassed to tell them that this is the first time in a long time anyone has ever celebrated his birthday, jokingly punches shoulders and kicks shins when they crow with good-natured laughter over his emotional reaction. They give him what presents they could scrounge up with their meager salaries: a moogle keychain, a multipurpose tool, a gift card to a popular restaurant. He’s surprised most of all by Cloud, who wordlessly presents him with a box. Inside is a set of three materia. 

“This one is cure,” he points to the first round green orb, “this is lightning,” another of a yellowish green color, “and this blue one is called ward. It’ll help you withstand stuff like confusion and poison magic.” The last one is especially useful, and was no doubt hard to find. If anyone could find something like that though it would be weird, quiet little Cloud Strife.

“Wow,” Elijah says, struggling to find words, “that’s really cool. Thank you.” 

Cloud nods at him, and then disengages without another word. He collects his bag from his bunk bed, no doubt heading for the showers. He retires to bed early—he always does, apparently able to sleep through the loudest of noises as long as he has a horizontal surface and a pillow.

“Bro,” Reyes says, eyeing this new gift with wide-eyed surprise. “Do you realize how expensive that shit is?”

The rest of their bunker murmurs in agreement, and soon he’s surrounded on all sides by cadets eager to see materia that isn’t hand-me-down practice equipment, dulled with use.

Cloud seems to have calmed a bit over the months. In the beginning, he’d been tetchy and defensive. Elijah knows the look of someone like that, having grown up in the slums. It’s the look of someone who has been burned enough times that extending trust is an exercise in risk. It still resurfaces at times. He’d had enough trouble with Instructor Luxiere that his mentor pulled him from the class, and he’s quick to begin a confrontation if provoked to it. Even then, it’s difficult to shake that mask of mixed hostility and humor, and when it falls, his true anger is a sight to behold. 

His fight with Marie and Bruno had been something of a turning point for him, Elijah remembers. Whatever they said had him white-faced with fury. It’d been chilling to hear him say, “Cool, which one of you wants to bleed first?” before they began to exchange blows. He fought _ dirty, _ the way a slum thug mid-robbery would, ducking and feinting and scratching, had landed solid hits that reverberated sickeningly throughout the shocked silence of the gymnasium. 

Elijah’s convinced the only thing that enabled Instructor Belk to stop the fight was the power of mako. Marie and Bruno were easy enough to subdue, falling heavily onto the floor to lick their wounds, but Instructor Belk ended up having to pick Cloud clean off of the floor to stall any more attacks. Seeing any other kid spitting curses and kicking restlessly into the air would might have been amusing. But there’d been blood on Cloud’s hands and none of it was his. Whatever punishment the Lieutenant-General passed onto him had seen him missing from class for a week, and when he returned, some of that strange air of restlessness had been all but erased, making him surprisingly easier to approach. 

Cloud has never been unkind to Elijah, but this display of attention is unprecedented. 

“What’d you do, man?” Alistair asks. “Help him commit a murder?” 

This elicits some laughter. Elijah smiles, amused despite himself. “No idea.”

He doesn’t get to question Cloud about his gift before the first round of instruction ends. SOLDIER grants cadets one period of leave, November until the beginning of February. From then until May, they will review material religiously. The exam is in June. Cloud is one of the first cadets to leave for break, and no one has any idea where he has gone.

\--

The break is difficult. Elijah is unable to provide a good enough excuse to clear him to stay in the barracks, so he has to return to Sector 7. 

Things are a little different, but it’s difficult to put his finger on what, besides the obvious. The house that sat abandoned for years is now a modest bar called 7th Heaven. He’s avoided this place like the plague since he left. He rents a room at the inn, and sets about occupying himself for the next few days. 

Once, a boy approaches him and says, “Got any news?” 

“News of what?” Elijah asks, baffled. 

The kid’s open expression falls. “Oh, sorry. Never mind.” He scurries away. 

\--

Elijah’s boredom naturally brings him to the new bar in Sector 7. He hears of it often in ambient conversation, hears tell of rowdy revolutionaries who are a big source of entertainment amidst the humdrum, and an owner who can whip up a drink and a meal good enough to elicit tears.

He’s greeted by a pretty young woman behind the bar. She’s got her elbows on the bar, leaning towards Mrs. Gainsbourough’s daughter Aerith, who gives him a warm smile of recognition as he approaches. Her mother fed Elijah more than once on especially difficult days over the years.

“Hi, Elijah!” Aerith says. Of course she would remember his name after so long. “This is Tifa, she owns this lovely bar. Doesn’t it look great? I think it’s decorated nicely and reasonably. The string lights are a cute touch. What do you think?” 

Tifa rolls her eyes, but there’s flush on her cheeks that she hides by briefly ducking her head.

“Yeah,” Elijah laughs, by now used to this playful abruptness. “A regular home away from home.”

“Can I get you anything?” Tifa asks. 

“Ooh, make him the blue thing, the blue drink with the ice you make to look like materia.” Aerith says, whacking the bar excitedly.

“Oh, uh, I don’t need anything just yet—”

“Tifa,” Aerith says, barreling over his protest, “Is very good at magic, and she can make ice that looks like materia, _ with _ materia, which is super neat, and totally something you should buy.”

She can’t be discouraged. Tifa gives him the drink on the house, a pleasant enough surprise. The patrons of the bar are chatty and relaxed. Tifa and Aerith ask him about his life with friendly interest, easing some of his lingering frustration with being forced back where he wanted to avoid. They’re especially interested in his work as a SOLDIER cadet.

“My best friend is a cadet, too. We came to Midgar together. Do you know him? I know there a bunch of you guys, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t.” Tifa says. 

“What’s his name?” 

“Cloud Strife? Quiet, a little kooky? Probably bald this time of year?” 

Elijah sucks in a surprised laugh and nearly chokes on his drink. (It’s smooth, with a surprisingly smoky taste even through the magic-induced cold—and yes, the ice is pretty cool.)

Aerith giggles. “You definitely know him.” 

“Is he always like that?” Elijah blurts.

Aerith lets out a wobbly noise and looks at Tifa. After a moment, the two of them crack up, loud cackling laughter that is charming all the same, bright and too big for their bodies. Tifa puts one hand on her hip and the other on her cheek, looking deeply fond when she says, “Always.” 

“He’s awful!” Aerith adds, cheerfully.

“It was, uh, my birthday recently. He gave me some materia as a gift—really nice materia. But I don’t think I’ve ever exchanged more than a handful of words with him.” 

Aerith gives him a look that makes him feel a bit like he’s on display, even though her smile hasn’t faltered. 

She says, “Cloud likes to look out for people. If he’s marked you for friendship, everything will be fine.” 

It’s an odd choice of words. Before he can question her about it, she continues. “He and Tifa,” and here she directs a look to Tifa that’s maybe a little doe-eyed, “have been a big help around here.” 

And it makes sense, now, he thinks, some things. How Cloud is back before curfew some days but usually gone far longer than is allowed, always returning undetected just in time for daily count. Some more vindictive cadets have snitched on him more than once, but no proof can ever be dug up. And under the plate, everyone looks, if only the slightest bit, happier. People will meet his eyes and sometimes offer a smile. If he sits still for too long, someone will eventually stop and ask if he has everything he needs. Life in the slums is not so awful if you have connections, but if you do not, it can be incredibly isolating. Elijah is sure that it’d be easier to weasel his way into one now more than ever. If anything, it feels like the entire place is one pool of connection.

“You know,” Elijah tells them. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me at all.”

\--

When they return for instruction, Elijah’s surprised to see that Cloud has a bit of a tan. He didn’t think it was possible for someone that pale to do much more than burn. His hair has also grown a considerable amount—or maybe it just looks longer because it’s him—and is falling messily into his eyes and around his ears.

“Interesting travels?” Elijah asks, taking a place beside him in line for breakfast.

He’s pleasantly surprised to see that their breakfast looks a little less green than usual. When they reach the end of the bar and see that there is a selection of fresh fruits and vegetables to choose from, Cloud makes a high-pitched noise of interest. He fills a bowl with an assortment of this treat. 

When the boys in line behind him voice complaints, he glares at them and barks out, “Everything I do that makes you angry is good for me because your cries of despair fuel my power.” He grabs an apple for good measure. 

“You could say that.” Cloud replies as they claim a table, as if he doesn’t have a dozen irritated eyes on his back. 

“I met some of your friends under the plate over the break. Tifa and Aerith? They missed you a lot.” 

Cloud’s expression softens the tiniest bit. “They’re okay sometimes.”

“They are. I didn’t—” and he pauses. 

Why is he even saying this? When has he ever felt the desire to express this to anyone? 

He has Cloud’s full attention now. He’s propped his chin into his palm, those piercing eyes meeting his own. “Elijah?”

Why does this moment feel like something bigger than what it really is? Why does he feel like he can’t look away? The sleepy murmur of their fellow cadets’ conversation sounds strangely distant, as if they’re coming out of a tin can. The edges of his vision blur. All the while, Cloud is watching, calm and expectant, central in this little swirl of reality.

He begins to talk again, slowly. “I didn’t really have a lot, under there. No parents, sometimes no food. I hated it. Lots of bad memories, you know? But things are different now. I saw that over the break, I mean. Running errands for people and listening to them talk about helping each other and how they can keep the children happy. It all felt like...” 

“Like you could make some better memories.” Cloud supplies. 

He bites into an apple, the soft _ crack! _ of it bringing the volume of the world rushing back in with expediency. Elijah blinks against the sudden sting behind his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “Exactly like that.”

“Come visit us under the plate. We’ll make sure you eat something a little better than this muck.” Cloud gestures toward his plate. 

Elijah takes a bite of his bread roll. At least it’s just bland instead of hard and of dubious quality. “I think I’d like that.”

\--

It’s decided that the practical portion of the SOLDIER exam will be held outside of Junon.

As one of the largest ShinRa bases on the planet, Junon has a gamut of resources for SOLDIERS and every program peripheral to it. A good number of SOLDIER Seconds and even a few Firsts are stationed here. As such, a number of training facilities are available, which the program reserves to host the written portion of the exam. Elijah is nervous about the written exam, and outright terrified of the practical portion of the exam.

They are allowed to bring exactly three materia each, a bedroll, and the survival backpacks they’d been given at the beginning of the semester. If they lost something or forgot to restock their rations at the commissary, the cost of replenishing those items it is taken out of their paycheck. There are many complaints in the barracks, but soon the jittery excitement of possible glory silences all complaints. When they load onto the trucks that will deliver them to the nearest port. It’s faster to get to Junon by boat than it is by land. Their instructors, who by now are used to Cloud’s unshakeable motion sickness, provide him with valium and separate him from the rest of their regiment. It’s a boring drive, and a downright excruciating boat ride, because they all know they should be studying but they’re losing their minds with anticipation. 

They arrive just as the sun is going down, and are not given time to admire upper Junon before they’re given a rushed dinner and told to get some rest. They’re assigned temporary bunkers that mirror their assignments back Midgar, much to the dismay of some cadets who were hoping to work with new people. Elijah is privately grateful for the familiarity.

They are all terribly shocked to see the General and his second in command waiting for them as they file into the mess hall for breakfast the next morning. He and several SOLDIERS of varying classes—including their instructors—are seated at a table up front, facing row upon row of tables intended for cadets. He can see the Lieutenant-General ducking his head this way and that, no doubt searching for Cloud. When he finds him, he hisses his name, and a huge grin breaks out on his face when Cloud waves at him, returning his smile. It’s the first time Elijah has ever seen him smile in a way that wasn’t mean or teasing.

As they settle down, they share confused conversation. The General speaks, not bothering to raise his voice. Once the cadets sitting up front realize they will have to quiet themselves to hear him, silence ripples to the back in a wave, leaving the scuff of someone’s uniform boots as the only sound.

“Good,” General Sephiroth says, glancing down to cut neatly into a pomegranate. His voice carries easily through the hall. 

As he speaks, he begins to neatly remove its seeds with his fingers, for once free of their gloves. His pale skin is quickly stained. “Good morning, cadets. Congratulations on making it to the SOLDIER exams. When recruitment began last year, we accepted two-hundred applicants out of two-thousand. Over the course of the year, your numbers steadily lowered to ninety-eight.” 

He pops a few seeds into his mouth, apparently savoring the flavor. Elijah gives his neighbor a wide-eyed look, which is returned with sympathetic horror. 

“The next step of this process is mako aptitude. If your body cannot tolerate mako, you will not be in SOLDIER. You might find this unfair, but the point of your year-long instruction, down to the body mass requirement, was intended to better prepare you for exposure. It is unlikely that you will die, but you will know it if your body cannot tolerate mako. You will be given all of the necessary medical treatment at no expense to you, but you will have failed. Upon recovery, should you wish it, you will be given the chance to join the Regulation Army. Other career paths within ShinRa can be discussed at a later date.

“If there are any of you who are unwilling to take this risk, I ask that you pack your belongings now. You will face no judgement. You will be given the same option as those who fail their aptitude test.” 

The mess hall is eerily silent. The General pops another seed into his mouth. 

Then, the sound of a chair scraping against the polished floors cuts through the quiet. Elijah cranes his neck to see an older cadet he doesn’t recognize. He salutes. General Sephiroth thanks him as he leaves. This act of bravery encourages a few others to follow. Elijah counts thirty-eight people in total. 

“You will be monitored for up to twelve hours in the infirmary. After a day of rest, the written portion of the exam will begin. This will last three days. Then, the practical exam will begin. You will be randomly assigned to groups. You will be scored on your ability to survive in the field and the strategy you use to battle different kinds of fiends. Make no mistake, however. The most important aspect of this exam is how well you work with your team. SOLDIERs are rarely sent into the field on their own. You will not lose points on this portion of the exam. The goal is to earn as many of them as possible. Each and every one of you will have the opportunity to earn the max of sixty-five. You will need to use every skill you were taught to pass.”

Their instructors had been annoyingly tight-lipped about the practical portion of the exam. What for? This is genuinely not that different from landmark lessons they had, when they’d been hustled out of Midgar to practice a few days in the field nearby. Elijah wrings his hands together. If their instructors had all been a little more forthcoming, they all might have been able to prepare for this properly. The bulk of their review leading up to this point has been focused on the written portion.

The Lieutenant-General speaks then. Elijah can feel the tension draining from everyone’s bodies. “It won’t be easy, guys, but trust me when I say you’ve been given as much prep for this as possible. And hey—we’ll all be here to make sure that you’re safe in the field, and I personally,” here he pauses to press his splayed hands to his chest, “will be here to cheer obnoxiously for everyone, whether you pass or not.” 

A grateful laugh ripples through the mess hall. Lieutenant-General Fair elbows General Sephiroth, and says, “He’s just being intense because he really wants you guys to do well. Do you know he takes leave every time the exam is hosted so he can be here? Has to fight tooth and nail every time. What I’m trying to say is that we’re proud of you.” 

His eyes were surveying the crowd as he spoke, but they inevitably find their way back to where Cloud is probably sitting. 

“Good deal?” He asks.

They all respond affirmatively. 

“Nice, let’s fuckin’ eat!” He crows, standing. 

They all laugh again. Even General Sephiroth gives him a tired little smile. 

\--

They are awakened at five in the morning, given a rushed breakfast, and then escorted to a large waiting room in the medical unit of the Junon base. They pass SOLDIERs on assignment, who murmur words of encouragement and praise. They all have the same look about them—busy and powerful, all glowing eyes and straight backs. 

They’re called by surname, which places Elijah nearly at the front. It’s the first time he’s ever been happy to carry the name Avalon. The wait would have eaten away at his patience otherwise.

When he’s called, he’s ushered into an area that looks curiously similar to that of a hospital’s emergency department, with rooms separated from the world at large by ugly patterned curtains. A doctor and a nurse are waiting for him inside. A SOLDIER Third is sitting at the foot of the hospital bed, who greets him with a nod. After taking a seat on the bed, he’s instructed to hold out his arm, which is then placed on a bare table. 

“What are you gonna do?” Elijah asks, warily glancing at where the doctor pulls a rolling tray close with her foot. 

On the tray is a scalpel, gauze, antiseptic pads, and three syringes with small amounts of glowing mako. He’s never seen it up close, not like this. He’s surprised by how bright it looks.

A nurse, an unassuming looking man with wavy brown hair and round glasses, approaches him with a smile. He has a tourniquet in his hand, which he tests briefly before tying Elijah’s arm just below his elbow. 

The doctor is chewing on some gum as she explains the process, like this is a normal day. For someone who works for ShinRa, this is probably the lowliest of duties she’ll perform all day. “First, we’re going to draw some blood, okay? Then we’ll start the test. We’ll make some small incisions and give you a drop mako of different concentrations on each cut. If your body can work well with it, the cuts will be healed. If not, they won’t—but either way, you’re gonna be out of commission for a little while.”

“Why do you need to draw blood?” 

The doctor smiles, but it’s not a pleasant one. “Kid, if you’re gonna be a SOLDIER, I think you’ll learn pretty quick that asking questions isn’t really your job.”

Shamefaced, Elijah falls silent. The whole thing doesn’t take too long. Each cut stings, but the lack of a throbbing ache assures him that they aren’t as deep as he feared they would be. He’s been cut deeper in sword practice by other Cadets. He watches in horrified fascination as the viscous fluid burns the swell of his blood away with a hiss, and is then drawn into his flesh as if attracted by magnetism. Immediately, a tingling burst of flame spreads underneath his skin, spreading slow but insistent until he’s convinced his flesh will burn away to the bone.

It’s a pain that begins as uniquely nagging and then quickly evolves into the unbearable. He now understands why the SOLDIER is there. An arm locks around his front, heavy as iron, keeping him in place as an uncomfortable shudder rolls through his body. Another hand clamps down on his wrist, keeping his arm in place. Each time the urge to thrash surges within him, he’s bullied back into position. 

“Hey, look here, Avalon. You passed,” The SOLDIER says, at length. 

Elijah has to fight to open his eyes. The edges of his vision are blurry, but he can see that the cuts are gone, leaving behind slightly raised skin in their wake. 

“Congratulations,” the doctor says, “You’re one step closer to joining the SOLDIER program. Your body will need time to process the mako, so you’ll be staying here to rest for the next twelve hours. If you feel any strong adverse reactions, call for a nurse. It’s supposed to hurt, but if you’re still feeling this way by the time your stay here is done, you’ll need a Cure. Good job.” 

The nurse had been cleaning up as they spoke, and is done when she is. They leave in a rush. 

“This doesn’t seem legal,” Elijah gasps out. 

The SOLDIER pats him on the back. “You alright? 

“I’d take my skin off like a coat if I could.” 

The SOLDIER grins at him. “Wait until you get the mako showers!”

He leaves before Elijah can question him further, and a team of nurses arrives. He’s directed to an en-suite bathroom he hadn’t even noticed, where they help him shower. Suddenly existence is too strange for him to feel shy about the whole thing. Water feels weird hitting his skin, like little kisses dropping insistently all over. They are bruising kisses on his arm, and he curls into the wall, shielding his arm from the world. 

When his shower is over, they get him in a hospital gown and connect him to all manner of machines by a panel on the wall behind his bed. He’s only ever seen an EKG on television, so he’s quietly, childishly fascinated by the way holding his breath can cause it to stutter and speed up, visual and auditory proof of his body working against gravity to sustain him, like they learned in their course on the human body.

His arm still feels like little hot irons are digging away at his flesh, but every other part of him is floating, he’s sure. 

“You’re pretty,” he tells one of the nurses. He can’t actually see their face, but he can make out a cloud of red curls, which is a nice color. 

She lets out a tinkling laugh. “He’s feeling it.” 

“Can you tell me your name, young man?” Another one calls out. 

“I’m Elijah Avalon.” 

“How old are you?” 

“Nineteen.” 

“What’s your favorite color?” 

“I grew up in the slums, all colors are pretty because everything’s so dull down there. When I came up to the plate I thought I was gonna fall into the sky, it’s so blue and big. I think I like that one the most.” 

Their laughter sounds a little hellish all mingled together.

“I think this one’ll do just fine, probably.” One of them says. 

Another sighs. “They’re getting younger and younger every year.” 

“Hush, Graham.”

“We’re gonna let you sleep, okay hun? Do you need anything?” 

“Can I have a hug?” 

Somebody tsks, then coos. “Not right now, sorry. I can get you an extra blanket though. That’s close enough.” 

As promised, another blanket is draped over him, and he drifts off, vaguely aware of the world. 

He can hear people speaking faintly. The voices are familiar. For a moment, he’s completely overtaken by heartbroken acceptance. He knows that he’ll never hear these voices again in his life. 

“Mom?” He calls out. 

The ghost of a touch brushes his forehead. “Again? Why is everyone calling me their mother lately?” 

“I guess they must be fond of you.” 

“This one’s a little too big to adopt...”

“Tough luck, friend. Sounds like you don’t have a place here.” 

Then, there is silence. He sits in this silence for hours, moving only when nurses dip their head in to check his vitals. Sometimes the ambiance is punctuated by someone screaming or crying out, but the fits rarely last long.

By the time Elijah is released, the sun is setting, painting the Junon sky a lovely purple orange. 

They’re given free reign to do whatever they’d like within reason before the practicals begin tomorrow. Most cadets complain of being ravenously hungry, and meander out of the base in search of food and fun in this new city. Elijah watches the sky from the window of his bunker. 

“How are you feeling?” 

He jolts. “Gods, Cloud.” 

He gets the usual blank stare. 

“Feeling okay. Not very hungry. Are you gonna go get dinner?” 

Cloud shrugs, and briefly props his elbow up on the windowsill, looking towards the sea. “Probably gonna go for a swim.” 

“You feel good enough to do that?” 

“Yup.” 

A silence stretches between them, companionable. 

“Hey, did the mako make you feel—weird?” 

“Ten people failed, did you hear? Lowest amount of failures in years.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Elijah points out, tiredly. 

Cloud’s answer is quiet enough that he has to strain to hear it. “Yeah, it did. It’ll always be that way. We’re tapping into the culmination of everything that’s ever lived, at every point in time leading up until now, so we can be super soldiers. I’m surprised all of us didn’t die.” 

He shoves Elijah on the shoulder, and it’s rough but he can tell it’s meant to be friendly, and then he’s gone. Elijah crawls into his bunk and goes to sleep. He’s awakened a few times by the rest of his bunkmates trickling in at various hours. Well after curfew, someone enters the room smelling strangely of salt, gunsmoke, and the weird ozone burn that thunder magic creates. The strange smells are abruptly neutralized, a shaky sigh is released into the air, and a bunk creaks.

\--

The days of the written exam pass in an annoyingly slow blur. 

In the end, fifty of them remain, a scarily reduced bunch out of where they started. Everyone looks as drained as Elijah feels, but Lieutenant-General Fair wasn’t lying. The exam is by no means a breeze, but he does find himself answering most questions with a measure of confidence that he wouldn’t have had a year ago. 

When the day comes for the practical to begin, all of that confidence is drained from him. After collecting their supplies, they are driven to the forested area nestled behind the nearby mountain ranges. They’re sorted into ten groups of five and introduced to the SOLDIER who will be tailing them to ensure their safety. Their SOLDIER is a Second Class who refuses to take off his helmet.

They are each given rifles with rubber bullets, and released into the wild. Three of Elijah’s teammates are cadets he’s only passingly familiar with, save a man from Regulation Army come to take the SOLDIER exam for the third time. When they press him for advice, he laughs and says that they change it up every year. 

The goal is to make it to a ShinRa owned compound nestled deep into the forest by the time the week is up. The first group to make it there will be given the privilege of a conversation with the General, but time of completion will not be factored into their overall score. Helpful resources are scattered throughout the forest, first come first serve, and there are little restrictions on competition for those resources. 

The rifles will be useful against other people if the need arises, but Elijah quickly learns that they are no help against what lurks amongst the trees. A few hours in, they’re attacked by a troupe of giggling capparwires, creatures they have only ever seen in textbooks. They’re odd looking things, with large teeth gritted in an eternal grimace, and their thorned limbs reach far. The hits are not as hurtful as he’s expecting, but they come often, leaving them roughed up within moments. He reaches for the materia on the utility bangle wrapped around his wrist, mutters an incantation, and columns of blessed magic come down upon them. The capparwires wilt quickly under its power, letting out rattling cries of defeat.

“What the fuck, Cloud,” he mumbles to himself, as his teammates cheer. 

Again and again, his materia gets them out of a bind. A well-placed cure erases the bruises a teammate sustains from a rubber bullet, the ward materia flushes out whatever adverse reaction his body had been gearing up to have from berries he probably shouldn’t have eaten, and there are very few fiends that are especially resistant to thunder damage.

He and his crew clean fish caught from creeks, they use the stars to follow their map at night, they lay low when they can. When they finally see the utilitarian compound break through the trees, Elijah falls to the ground in relief. The SOLDIER assigned to them tells them that they made it to the compound in four days. They are the fifth group to make it. 

When it’s all over, Lieutenant-General Fair cheers for them as promised. He’s joined by all of their instructors, and every SOLDIER who was their to proctor. General Sephiroth claps, standing tall behind them. 

\--

Their results are waiting for them upon their return. Of the fifty who took the exam, twenty-eight passed. Elijah is so relieved to see his name on the board that he takes a seat right there on the floor. 

He can see Cloud making his way through the chattering crowd, unashamedly shouldering his way past people who linger too long. He sits down in front of Elijah, criss cross applesauce, and props his chin up on his knuckles. 

“How did you know that materia would help?” Elijah asks, at length. 

He makes an exaggerated face of surprise. “What do you mean? Materia always helps.” 

Elijah glances around them, and leans forward, so that his whisper can be heard. “You’re—you could get in so much trouble. Did the Lieutenant-General tell you?” 

“Tell me what?” 

“Cloud…” 

He tilts his head. 

“Why me?” 

“Because I’m pretty much an expert at finding out who’s a good person and who sucks. My friends and I are doing important work and I think you could help. Want to make some better memories?” 

Elijah spends a few minutes just staring at him. “You could have just said if you wanted to be friends?” 

Cloud smiles. “Hi Elijah. I’m Cloud, I’m from Nibelheim, I like babies and dogs, and I’d like to be your friend.”

“Hi Cloud. I’m Elijah. I’m from here in Midgar, I like reading and the sky, and I feel like the ‘important work’ you’re doing is probably illegal.” 

“I knew there was a reason I liked you!” 

**4.**

A child kicks Rude in the knee with all her might for taking too long to move out of her way in Sector 7, and his suspicions about the changing tides are confirmed. 

Predictably, Reno guffaws with laughter. 

A good Turk is not often seen. The are a cavalry of a different kind, quiet and watchful, there to locate weaknesses for exploitation later. Showing their uniform, looming quietly-it’s a message. President ShinRa, rattled by a recent security breach (and this was the one he was aware of, not the one his son worked to hide from him) and growing unrest beneath the plates, has asked that SOLDIER Thirds and Turks be split among the populace in a show of force. 

He had been outright dismayed to learn that AVALANCHE was gearing up again, and cannot be convinced that they aren’t worth the attention. AVALANCHE has a checkered history at best, and most of their work today amounts to disrupting checkpoints and staging protests that are swiftly and harshly suppressed. 

No, whatever is happening in Midgar is showing signs of being scarily organized, especially in that it is quiet enough that the evidence can only be found in the margins: The vendors of Wall Market, who admittedly have always been more open than most if only in the interest of business, are more willing to speak and give free samples of food and other wares. Children no longer scatter when they approach. Workers from the Honeybee Inn jokingly proposition them with sneering humor, their usual haunted look replaced with a gutsy kind of presumptuousness. 

“Reno, don’t you see that something big is happening?” Rude sighs, reaching down to brush the dirt off of his suit pants. 

“What do you mean?” 

That gives him pause. “So you believe me?”

“I might. Depends on whatcha mean,” Reno replies, drifting closer.

Rude touches his elbow, directing his gaze towards a group of people chatting near an alley. One of them, a slender young man wearing the trademark uniform of a Honeybee Inn trainee, is openly smoking a blunt as he speaks to a young woman carrying a stack of large boxes. Several kids are at their feet, reaching up to wave their hands in the plumes of smoke he breathes out of his nose. He pauses to blow smoke rings their way, grinning when they jump up to break it apart. 

“Yeah, I get you.” Reno murmurs. Then, he mutters a curse. “Fuck, I want a cigarette now.” 

The blanket statement that people help people in the slums will always be true, but in general there’s a bit of tribalism—the sex workers stick together, Wutaian immigrants of all generations aren’t likely to speak to you if you didn’t earn their attention by giving them business or helping them out, and kids who aren’t attached to a guardian of some sort run in packs because they are fearful of inviting the wrath of adults frustrated by their work days, so on and so forth. 

“You don’t think people didn’t just have a come-to-Bahamut moment?” Reno asks, turning to face him. The look on his face says he doesn’t believe that, though. 

“Why do you always say words that aren’t necessary?” Rude gripes. 

“Why do you always have to suck the fun outta the world?” 

Reno is the worst. What he also is, however, is deeply intelligent (and uses assumptions about his accent to smokescreen that). 

“Because I’m your superior and I want you to do well. Keep an eye out and tell me what you think when this patrol is over.” 

This gets him an eyeroll, but Rude knows he’s been heeded. 

\--

Anna tells her that she ought not stick her nose where it doesn’t belong, but Jessie never was good at following orders anyway. 

She knows her sister is getting into dangerous work with AVALANCHE, and she wants to be part of that. She’s itching for a chance to prove to Barret that she can be of assistance. The role she’s given is that of a glorified deliveryman, which is annoying and humiliating, but she can work with that. She’s charming. She’ll find a way in. 

It’s always Jessie this, Jessie that. Bring the boxes to the Inn, Jessie. Take this annoyingly vulnerable container of folded papers and leave it in an abandoned pipe, Jessie, but don’t read it. Please don’t pet Freida, Jessie. Please make sure rando one, two, and three make it to their next destination unmolested, Jessie. It’s rotten work. The only thing that makes it better is if Cloud is there to thank her for it. He’s quiet, and kind of weird, but always sincere. 

He always finds time to do that, if he’s around. If she didn’t like him so much, she’d be pissed that someone only a few years older than her is able to do things that she can’t. She’s seen him come to AVALANCHE’s meetings, and people under the plate view him with affection and trust.

Today, she’s mid-complaint about running a box of empty beer bottles to Sector 6 when Cloud makes his way inside 7th Heaven, covered head to toe in soot. 

Before Jessie can stop herself, a frantic giggle rises in her throat. She’s barely seen him, lately. He’d been gone for months on leave, and preparing for the SOLDIER exam saw him running his little operations under the plate mostly through phone calls. 

His eyes snap to her. He spares her a tiny smile. “Spelunking, am I right?” 

“For sure,” she babbles. “Are you alright? Do you need, uh, a face towel or something?” 

“I’d appreciate it.”

“Cloud Strife!” Tifa calls out. “I’m so happy to see you again, but if you track whatever that is into my room, I’m making you clean it!” 

“What, I don’t get a hug? Me, your best friend?”

This question has the bar’s early morning patrons snickering into their drinks.

Barret will _ so _ scold her for not getting on her job, but the amused look Tifa gives Jessie when she sets down her package tells her she has an ally for the night. Letting out a little squeal, she takes off for Tifa’s living quarters upstairs. She roots around for a medium-sized hand towel, dabs a little soap and water on it, and runs back downstairs. 

Cloud is now seated at the bar, his hands in his lap. He likes to rest his head when he visits, but Tifa cleans obsessively in the morning and is liable to karate chop him if he tries. 

“Congrats on making SOLDIER,” Tifa is saying, smiling. “You’re our own little spy now, huh?” 

Cloud snorts. “Yeah, I guess. I feel like what this really means is that I’ll have even less time to help you guys out.” 

Tifa reaches out, squeezing his arm. “Have fun being complicit, boot boy.” Her joking words are entirely contradictory to the gentle tone of her voice. 

Cloud smiles at her, groaning but accepting it when she wipes the soot on her hand off into his growing hair. 

Jessie struggles to swallow down the rush of jealousy in her throat. They’ve known each other for a lot longer than they’ve even been here, and Tifa is wonderful. Anna would tease her so much if she told her about how she’s been feeling. 

“I’m back!” Jessie squeaks, hopping up onto the bar stool next to him. 

“Thanks, Jessie,” Cloud says, holding out a hand. 

“Let me!” She blurts. 

He doesn’t fight her, humming as she works the dark powder off his skin. Pass by pass, more freckles are revealed, far more than what he had before his break. His eyelashes (why do boys always have longer eyelashes than they know what to do with?) are a darker shade of blonde than his sun bleached hair. He’s gorgeous. Jessie could cry. 

“What are you running today?” He asks, tilting his head so she can reach his jawline. 

“Oh my gods, empty beer bottles. Can you believe that? Sometimes I feel like Barret is trying to drive me crazy.” 

Cloud huffs out a little laugh. “That was my request, actually. Figures he’d try to brush it off on someone else.” 

Jessie huffs. “Are you guys just teasing me? I know you only see me as Anna’s kid sister, but I’m literally fourteen…” 

Cloud laughs again, harder this time. It’s a lovely and rare sound, but even coming from him it only irritates her further. “Trust me, you’re doing important work. Tell you what. Bring that over here?” 

She looks at Tifa, hesitant. Tifa nods, so she scuttles over to where she left the case, and brings them back. Cloud takes a bottle, and twists the top off with one practiced pull. It’s a popular brand under the plate, made with a thick dark glass, and tastes like what Jessie imagines battery acid must taste like. It’s swill, but it’ll make you drunk. People like to sell the bottles for chump change, which is what she assumed the work was for. Errands within pockets of mutual aid groups for people in the slums usually does amount to generating wealth and sharing food. 

Cloud tilts the bottle at her, and she’s surprised to see a paper rolled up into it.

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, oh. Hey, Jessie? What’s your favorite animal?” 

She blinks. “I’ve always thought the coyotes that are supposed to live near Cosmo Canyon were pretty cool?” 

He screws the cap back onto the beer bottle with a sigh. “That makes so much sense. Speak to Vincent and see if he doesn’t have something more interesting for you to do. You’ll be safe, but don’t tell your sister. I think she might try to strangle me and I have a delicate constitution.” 

Jessie squeals in excitement, “You’re the best, Cloud!” 

Cloud gives Tifa an arch look. “You hear that? You and Aerith ought to stop bullying me.” 

Tifa punches him in the shoulder. Jessie gives him a hug, soot and all. It’s nice. 

\--

Cid can always tell when Vincent is visiting because he arrives at infuriating hours, earlier even than the start of Shera’s dedicated morning routine. He always knocks thrice, sharp but powerful, cutting through the silence of the dawn.

“God, you fuckers make me sick,” Cid says, as he opens the door. 

“It is good to see you again, Captain,” Vincent says, unfazed. 

There are three people standing behind him, two young women and man who looks weirdly familiar. “And what are your names, huh? Fuckin’, hippopotomus? Lemur? Mudskipper?”

It turns out their names are Lion, Narwhal, and Hornet. He realizes that Narwhal is Reeve fucking Tuesti, and by the surprised tilt of his brow, Reeve recognizes him as well. Cid wants a cigarette so bad. 

“What’s on the agenda for today?” 

“We’re going to take you to where you’ll be building the airship.” 

And that’s enough to perk him right up. He wakes Shera, genuinely regretting it, but knowing she’ll be alarmed if she doesn’t know where he is. A few months after their work with Number 26 failed, she’d been frantically afraid that he would leave town without announcing it, and always asked in that quiet way of hers where he’d be headed if he left at weird hours. It’s a habit, now more than ever, to let her know. 

“Can I come with?” She asks, rubbing at her eyes. 

“Hell yeah, Vincent’s gonna make me crazy with his stupidass questions.” He says, knowing full well that Vincent can hear him. 

The two of them get ready, and of course Shera packs leftovers from last night’s dinner for them to scarf down as breakfast, and they hit the road. Shera is seated up front with Vincent. (She’d blushed and giggled like a damn kid when Vincent lifted her up into that seat. Cid hasn’t seen her look like that in a long time.) Vincent drives like a maniac, but he’s a skillful driver. None of his companions seem particularly bothered by his driving save for Reeve, who is looking greener by the second.

“You awright, er, Narwhal?” Cid alls out, over the rush of air. 

Sitting in the back of a truck is never a peaceful thing on unmarked roads, and Reeve is a city slicker if ever Cid has seen one. 

“Just fine, thank you!”

He’s white knuckling a large book bag. Cid doesn’t even bother to keep his laughter in. Lion and Hornet rub Reeve’s shoulders comfortingly, but they’re giggling along with him. 

The ride takes several hours, which assuages his anger over the early hour. After the terrain has changed considerably, flattening with plains; Cid can smell the sea-salt spray of the ocean, though the sight of the coast is blocked by jutting mountain ranges. It’s a brilliant place to base any kind of large-scale operation. Cid knocks on the back window of the truck until Shera gently pries it open. 

“Who found this place?” 

“Who do you think?” Is Vincent’s reply.

“Was it Omega?” Reeve calls out. 

“Who the fuck is—” and Vincent’s hand curls tightly around Cid’s wrist, squeezing briefly in warning. 

“Yes, it was,” Vincent answers. 

He spares Cid a brief but meaningful glance over his shoulder. 

Cid looks at Shera. “I told you, international crime!” 

\--

Connor is deeply amused to find that the strange boy’s assessment of ShinRa’s attentiveness is true, though he doesn’t doubt the kid knows a bit more about reactors than someone his age probably should. 

No one in the village below Fort Condor wanted ShinRa putting their noses where they weren’t wanted, but no one had the money to try and stop them. ShinRa has been like a disease on Gaia, propping up anywhere they think mako might be, like some sort of metal plague. The reactor had been hastily assembled on the hills, and the villagers were hired out to assist in its upkeep, but it’s a mess of a thing. Any particularly harsh change in condition, and the entire structure’s integrity—and thus, their lives, not that this is a priority—will be in danger.

“There’s something inside that I really need,” the kid had said, as his larger companion loitered ominously in the distance. “I’m planning on using it to stop the ShinRa once and for all. A lot of endangered species live in this area and the reactor puts them at risk.” 

He’d offered a hefty sum as compensation, more than what several families at Fort Condor combined are likely to make in a year. Connor took it. The people look to him and his wife as leaders, and there was no possible way he could see them being okay with him passing up such an opportunity. ShinRa sends technicians to survey the reactor once every other year—it’s a risk he felt comfortable taking. If push comes to shove, they’ll send the more vulnerable people in their community somewhere they’d be safe. 

“You’ll be safe,” the kid had said, before entering the reactor. “I’ve got friends in high places.” 

Just in case, they’ll keep the money. They are used to living simple. If ShinRa ever does bear down on them, he wants them all to have the chance to hire some swords who’ll protect them.

\--

Some years ago, Lucrecia’s prison had begun to melt. 

There is no other way to put it. Jenova’s influence was a cruel, enduring thing. She’d felt it during her pregnancy, felt it especially harshly when she’d birthed her one and only child, and was forced to live with it for decades after. Harsh words, images and words and thoughts that had her head buzzing with a mad impression of power she’d never possess. She measures her time by her child’s birthdays, and when he’d turned sixteen, Jenova’s hold over her lessened until it was but a whisper.

They’d all been so stupid—she, Grimoire, Hojo, and Gast. The core of science is questioning, always, building on theories to explain nature. They’d all stumbled onto the answers they thought they wanted and ran with it, hurting so many people in the process, her child most of all. 

Lucrecia dreams of him sometimes. Saw him grow up in pieces—likely due to the corrupted cells they share, an ugly little reunion. She saw him as a boy, lab after lab, test after test. They cut him, broke bones, sprained joints. He’d lost a tooth when a rare show of childish energy saw him running in circles until he hit a wall. When a new one grew in the next day, they restrained him and pulled multiple teeth just to track the process of the next set. They infected him with a gamut of sicknesses, eager to see how his system flushed them out. At thirteen, he started to win battle after battle for them on the field, staining his light colored hair with the blood of complete strangers. His body healed, always, but she knew his heart broke more and more each time his humanity was tested. 

Now, her dreams are more fragmented, but she sees him tired, resentful, restless, and she sees him a lot less. Jenova has become less interested with her over time, most likely. One blessing traded for a devastating blow. Is it a good thing, this? When the last of her bindings fade, will she still be alive? 

It doesn’t matter, in the end. She is as much a plague on this planet as the calamity she bound herself to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, thanks to my friend danny for patiently listening to me blubber about the ails of life and my love for the world's weirdest game. im super grateful for your eye. (any leftover mistakes are mine!)
> 
> i have a very detailed outline for this fic. it's a living document so i have some wiggle room, but i pretty much know where i want this to go and how i'd like it to end. just wanted to point out that i've been careful not to confirm or deny anything huge, bc it's really fun to see you guys share your thoughts and im rly excited for where this will go
> 
> HOPEFULLY if i planned this well enough all your questions will be answered by the end. if not, i'll answer them myself :) thanks as always for reading


	7. Nibelheim 2

**1.**

Cloud has a spectacular talent for finding Vincent wherever he is, at any given moment. 

Today it is atop the roof of 7th Heaven. Vincent hears him before he approaches, of course—it’s a courtesy Cloud has been giving him since he was a gangly child, busily sticking his nose every place it didn’t belong. Now, at a healthy if tired sixteen, Cloud’s spiky head breaches the line of the roof before his freckled face follows. The lopsided grin he gets is both bittersweetly evocative of simpler days and telling of an affection that Vincent has always privately thought was unfounded. There are many things Vincent deserves, none of them good—least of all the unconditional trust of a person determined to do good, or the peripheral trusts from others that followed soon after. 

“Howdy.” Cloud says, clambering up onto the roof one lanky limb at a time. 

“Afternoon.” Vincent nods. 

“What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Truly? Nothing at all.” 

It’s a rare and precious thing and he savors it, and Cloud’s presence has always quelled the call of the demons in his head—sends them into a state of stunned, fitful torpor. 

“That sounds great right about now.” Cloud mutters, crawling forward so he can lay on his stomach, his head hanging over the roof. 

The bustle of Sector 7 continues on below them. The citizens, who are now accustomed to Vincent perching in high places when ShinRa’s forces are not out, call greetings up towards them. People of all kinds pass by—parents with their children, children unaccompanied, tired adults. Brown faces, white faces, smiles and frowns and whatever falls in between. Life. Vincent comes to a quiet realization.

“There’s no way I can ever convince you to stop doing all of this, is there?” Vincent asks.

To his surprise, Cloud laughs, not even looking up from his phone. Vincent can see that he’s ordering a few of their teams around using their little skeleton server (_ coyote coming over to help you guys with tech stuff PLEASE do not provoke her _ and _ narwhal will be in sector 8 please make sure he’s protected as he works he is a very squishy man _ and _ nanaki can have a little salami please just give him an apple next time also next target is mideel BE SAFE ON SEAS. _). 

“You ask me this after helping build a shadow revolution from the ground up and committing several crimes? I know you’ve got a flair for the dramatics, Vince, but this is pushing it.” 

“I just worry that you might get yourself killed.” 

Vincent has been doing everything in his power to protect him, but he cannot be in several places at once.

Cloud sighs. “I’m not afraid to die.” 

“Look at me,” Vincent demands. 

Cloud obeys, lips pressed thin.

“How can you say that? Don’t you know how loved you are?”

“I do. That’s the reason why I’m doing all of this in the first place.” 

Vincent closes his eyes, pained. Anyone who ever puts their trust in him is doomed to reach an early grave, he’s sure of it. 

Cloud wraps a hand around his wrist, gripping tightly. There’s a lot of strength in that grasp, especially for someone unenhanced. 

“Guess you gotta stick around if you’re so worried. Make sure I don’t fuck it all up.” 

“You’re insufferable.” 

Cloud swipes at Vincent’s hair, making it fan against his face. “You need another haircut. Can’t have you sticking out any more than you already do.” 

“Cloud,” Vincent says, injecting every ounce of his frustration into the word. Changing the subject abruptly is one of Cloud’s most infuriating habits, but this is an especially strange moment to try.

The hand on his wrist tightens, completely at odds with the serene look on Cloud’s face.

“No, I’m not gonna stop. We’re almost done, anyway. Folks are counting on me.”

And there are times when it’s better to just take Cloud’s word for it. In the early days, when the boy had first started dragging him along the mountainside and to his home for hearth and repose, he’d learned fast that Cloud rarely makes a liar of himself. 

As a child he would set out for the day with a promise to his mother that he’d return with food, and wouldn’t be satisfied until he could return with several animals for dressing. If Tifa wanted his assistance on any little thing, he’d do it—from serving as her giggly punching bag for a new round of moves or as a model for more risky makeup techniques. He’d begged Vincent for Wutaian lessons just to help his fighting instructor communicate better when Common words failed him. He cares little for the positive regard of anyone, but once he loves someone, he does not do it by halves. Vincent can relate. The people of this city—of the world—have no idea how lucky they are to be considered something worth saving. 

And this is juxtaposed by this strange sadness, exposed in the strangest ways. The way his eyes soften with sadness around children, nearly imperceptible to someone not adept at reading the changes in his face. His willingness to give some people second chances, while making snap decisions on others that are always warranted. His narrow-eyed distrust of traditional authority, hidden under silver-tongued surface level compliance. It tells a story missing chapter upon chapter, all wrapped up in the bird-boned shoulders of a young man with eyes too tired for his face.

It makes sense. Of course he’d reach Midgar and decide it was better to change the entire thing rather than let it remain unchecked. Nearly a half a year into their stay, Cloud sat him and Tifa down and said, “This city fucking sucks. Let’s do something about it.” 

Vincent’s earlier years, his tenure with the Turks—it all began here, and it’d eaten away at his morals and nearly saw to his death. His physical death, anyway—the emotional, spiritual, psychological death began when Lucrecia ran into Hojo’s arms, and was cemented at the business end of one of Hojo’s needles.

“You’re different.” Vincent begins. 

“Is it the hair?” Cloud asks. “I’ve been letting it grow out. Hoping I won’t have much reason to cut it anymore. I’ll braid it down to get it out of the way, please don’t lecture me about being practical—” 

“Cloud, please shut up.” 

He mimes zipping his mouth closed. 

“I hope that whatever is pushing you down this path will end with you alive on the other side of it. I also hope that you know that whatever it is that’s ailing you can’t rule over you. We’re here. I’ve been here, and I won’t leave unless you want me to.” 

This gets him a nod, a shaky little thing that’s more a tilt of the chin than anything. Cloud opens his mouth, closes it. Then, with a little whine, he shoves a knuckle into his mouth. Vincent remembers Gjertude saying it’d been an awful habit when Cloud was a toddler. He’d struggle to find words or express an emotion and settle for biting his frustration into his skin, leaving behind ugly red marks and layers of scarred skin. 

He doesn’t fight it when Vincent tugs his hand away, immediately bursting out with, “You know I love you, right?” 

“I do know it. I love you, too.” Vincent replies, startled into honesty.

How far he’s come. A long time ago, when Lucrecia began to show, Vincent had allowed himself a moment to imagine how things might have been if they’d lived in a world just slightly to the left of where it was: if he had not pushed her away, if that child had been a product of love and not the unconsenting target of lethal curiosity. Maybe something like this, he thinks. He will never be Cloud’s father. He has all he needs in his mother, and has not needed the guidance of an adult besides for some time. Still—maybe something like this.

Cloud says, “Good. I just wanted to make sure.” 

He stands up, gives Vincent a wobbly smile, and then makes his way off the roof. Vincent does not miss the way his breath hitches.

\--

How ironic that Sector 8 is still Turk country, and none of them can detect the stalkers in the margins. 

In their defense, Vincent trains their operatives well. He teaches them how to blend in, how to turn up the charm when they find themselves the focus of scrutiny and how to use their environments as smokescreens. It’s not foolproof, but they’ve got the advantage of living in a city where most people who aren’t rich have a habit of keeping their heads down. 

Tonight, the goal is to cause enough of a ruckus to allow Jessie to work her way into their information. She’s been far too gleeful to be allowed into the ranks, especially on account of her older sister’s ignorance of the whole thing, but she’s a valuable asset. She’s a deft hand at computers old and new, is just young and sweet-looking enough to avoid scrutiny from most, and unendingly loyal. She’d been frustrated at Barret assigning her the role of glorified deliveryman, but she had also stuck to it with efficiency.

“I’m so excited!” She whisper-shouts to him, as they board the train. 

She gets a good luck at his outfit and is suffused with girlish laughter. It’s an endearing enough sound that Vincent is grateful his collar hides his begrudging smile. Thick sunglasses are the only way the glowing red of his eyes can be subdued, and clothing with deep pockets are the best way to hide his hand, so he spends most days dressed in long winter coats and cargo pants, his hair wrapped in scarves of different colors. Again, they’re lucky for the oddity of Midgar, and the fact that most Midgarians mind their own business with tight-lipped dedication.

“Please don’t let that excitement get in the way of our job.” Vincent tells her, helping her step into the train with his good hand. She grins up at him and squeezes it, letting out another little sound of excitement. When they sit down, she pulls her burner phone from her pocket and begins tapping away at it, totally absorbed within minutes by her preparation.

The security check begins, soaking the train car a deep red, and then there is a brief moment of darkness. Jessie lets out a yelp and presses against his side, and when the lights turn back up, Vincent locks gazes with a Turk. He’d recognize that navy blue anywhere. He’s leaning over Jessie, who has pushed her phone against her chest, her pulse throbbing harshly enough for Vincent’s sensitive ears to pick up on. He’s reminded, once again, that it’s truly evil that the safety of so many people falls on the shoulders of the young. 

Vincent begins speaking Wutaian, rapidfire. “_ And just who are you? This girl is fourteen. Move away or I’ll hail security _.” 

He gets a stilted apology. The Turk leans away, and then he apologizes to Jessie in Common.

They are both wearing sunglasses, but Vincent can see that the warm brown eyes peering at him are assessing. His look is interrupted by Jessie elbowing him with all her might. “You think you can be a freak just because you’re a Turk? Ugh, I hate Midgar and I hate the creeps on this train! Let’s move, please!” 

With one last look the Turks’ way, Vincent wraps an arm around Jessie and beckons her forward. It will look far too suspicious to be riding the train to Sector 8 and then not show up, but their plans for the night have effectively stalled. A good Turk is rarely seen and Vincent recognizes that one as a regular at Aerith’s church. That was a message. 

Later, he sends the message down the comms that either someone is onto them or they have a mole. It’s Aerith who responds first, with a simple message of _ If it’s the Turks, I can help. _

Almost at the simultaneously, Cloud and Tifa type the same message: _ I don’t like that. _

Reeve says, _ I can do some looking. _

\--

Cloud had been convinced that scaring ShinRa in one area would draw their attention away from another, but he may have miscalculated. Roughing Rufus ShinRa up while someone did an intentionally messy breach into sensitive documents had increased security exponentially in some areas. Not always in the places that mattered, which many higher brass themselves are unaware of in the first place—secrets and money had gotten ShinRa far—but in enough places that the safety of their operatives is at increased risk. A disenchanted aide in the Science Department had been all too happy to share the bulk of what she knew of Hollander’s experiments with them. She’d been the one to create the bomb that killed him, but delivering it had killed her, too. Hojo is still alive, and more suspicious than ever, and the company is on its heels. Cloud keeps secrets from everyone, but the smoke and mirrors may be their inevitable downfall.

Vincent finds himself shouldering more and more responsibility, some of it self-imposed, so that he can make sure failure doesn’t come to pass. 

\--

Vincent recognizes the SOLDIER who brings Cloud into 7th Heaven on his back as Zack Fair—this is the only thing that keeps him from lashing out in a panic. Cloud has been building a dossier on persons of interest, and seems to view this man in particular with great fondness despite his associations. He’s been tentatively considering reaching out to Fair for his help in their work, which says a lot about his trustworthiness, but has not yet gone through with it.

He’s not meant to be seen by ShinRa operatives. This is something they agreed upon before even stepping foot in Midgar, if only for their collective safety. But Vincent heard Tifa’s little cry of panic and had been drawn to the sound on instinct, especially because it is after hours. He reaches the bottom of the stairs from the living quarters, sees the young man drenched from head to toe guiding a swaying Cloud into the bar all wrapped into a raincoat, and fears the worst.

“What happened to him?” Tifa is asking, pressing the back of her hand to Cloud’s forehead. Marlene is clinging to her leg, her bottom lip wobbling with distress. 

“He, uh, started mako treatments recently. The reactions aren’t always the best because it’s a lot for the body to process. If I’m being completely honest with you, I don’t fucking trust the doctor he was being seen by, so I took the liberty of taking him out early. I figured he’d want to come to in a familiar place.” 

“I have him.” Vincent says, drawing their attention. 

Those mako blue eyes train on him with suspicion. 

“No offence, but who are you?” 

“I practically raised him. Give him to me.” Vincent says, reaching out. It’s a lie, but it gets the man moving, especially on Tifa’s nod. He has tucked his deformed hand into the deep pocket of his pants, and is for once thankful for his unnatural strength when Cloud is pushed into his hold.

Cloud is pale as a sheet, and lets out a hissing noise of irritation at being jostled. He responds easily enough to guidance, and apparently has just enough energy to move, but does not answer any questions. When Vincent tilts his head up to get a look at his face, he’s startled by the heavy dilation of his eyes, leaving behind a faint ring of glowing blue. 

“It’ll, uh, be better if I stay. There’s no telling how the mako could make him react and I don’t want you guys to get hurt.” Fair says, subdued. 

“Of course.” Tifa says. She pulls Marlene up into her arms and locks up for the night. 

They make their way upstairs. Vincent goes through the motions. None of the little concentration games Cloud and Tifa play will rouse him. They pull him out of his raincoat on the way upstairs. Cloud’s sleeves are rolled up, Vincent notices with a pause. It occurs to him that he’s never seen Cloud’s bare arms. They’re paler than his face, and littered with scars of all shapes and sizes. Feeling deeply that he’s witnessed something that wasn’t meant for him, Vincent averts his gaze. 

They bring him to the little room Tifa keeps for him, he takes one look at where Freida is napping in his bed and curls himself around her, hands delving into her fur. The wolf stirs with a restless growl, but as soon as she recognizes his scent she licks his face and settles. 

“I’m Zack,” Fair says, sitting at the foot of Cloud’s bed with a sigh. 

“Call me Chosokabe,” Vincent says. His mother’s maiden name. 

“How come Cloud’s never told me about you, Chosokabe?” 

“You’re surprised that there’s something he hasn’t told you.” 

Fair rubs the back of his neck, letting out a bashful laugh of acceptance. 

They say nothing to each other for a long time. Hours pass this way. Sometimes Tifa will arrive with food. Fair leaves only for the restroom or to stretch his legs, restlessly doing squats in the hallway. He answers phone call after phone call, promising to answer this email and attend that seminar, and no Genesis was not supposed to be anywhere near the Seconds, no mom he’s not getting married any time soon, Belk please stop torturing the Cadets. The whole time he runs a hand busily through Cloud’s hair, mussing it further. Whenever Cloud shifts or makes a questioning noise he murmurs, “I know, sorry buddy,” staying still until a more comfortable position is found.

Growling like a motor, Freida leaves Cloud’s bed to curl at Vincent’s feet, nipping at his ankles like the overweight nuisance she is. The move to Cosmo Canyon will do her some good. 

Fair gets a phone call on the seventh hour. He reads the caller ID and rolls his eyes, but answer it with a smile. “I know you said 0600 hours, but.” 

“I’d love it if you didn’t play coy, Zackary,” the voice on the other line says. 

And Vincent—knows that voice. Has heard it on the radio, has seen it on brief broadcasts concerning SOLDIER’s movements and plans. 

“I’ll sign all your paperwork for _ two _ whole days?” 

A sigh. “How is he?” 

“Better. Really quiet, which I guess is what freaks me out because he never shuts up, you know?” Here Fair gives Vincent a brief little grin. “I think he should be cresting soon, he’s gotten a little more responsive. You can probably already tell, but I’m gonna be late today.” 

“That’s fine. Make sure you’re here before noon, however. If you’re worried about this happening again, speak to Lazard about leveraging your position as his mentor for a few days of leave.”

“Alright, sorry again. Hey Seph?” 

“Hmm?” It’s a pleasantly human sound—attentiveness through distraction, and painfully similar to Lucrecia chatting him up during her busiest days. A pen in hand, a replacement for the one she “lost” that was really just tucked behind her ear, the hair at her temples flyaway with frizz, her heels clicking against the floor as she worked. 

“Have you eaten anything recently?” 

“...I’m sure I did at some point.” 

Fair laughs. “I’ll order you some food.”

“That won’t be necessary.” 

“Plain cheese from the pizza place on Fourth? Gotcha. And eat the brownies too. See you soon!”

He disconnects before another protest can be voiced. Vincent, feeling like the world might be spinning a bit faster than usual, makes his way over to Cloud’s desk and sits down. 

“Was that the General?” 

“Yep,” Fair says, dialing a number with the rapidness of rote memorization. The order is made, and then Vincent has his full attention. 

“Is he well?” 

Fair’s brows furrow, but he answers the question with a nod. “He’s doing about as good as any of us can.”

“That’s good.” 

Another silence descends, and it isn’t broken until Cloud awakens hours later.

\--

During a lull, Vincent loads his truck with boxes and leaves for Nibelheim. It feels strange to use this vehicle (a clunker that Cloud found in the slums and fixed up in his free time, another skill that came out of absolutely nowhere) for something as menial as a move, even though that is not the only objective of this trip. It’s so entirely different from his time in that coffin. Once he’s free of prying eyes on the way to the nearest port, Vincent uncovers his hair and rolls the windows down, feeling the wind through his hair. He does it again once he makes it to the Western Continent, and looks rather like a windswept rat by the time he makes it up Mount Nibel. 

Unsurprisingly, Gjertude fussily fixes his hair when she greets him, and then she laughs and pulls him into a hug, rocking him back and forth. She looks the same as she did a year ago, with her blond hair pulled into utilitarian braids around her head, all understated beauty with the calloused hands of someone constantly at work. A smacking kiss lands on his cheek, and then the curve of his jaw. 

“Come in, come in! Quickly if you please, I want the neighbors to think I’m having a sordid affair.” She tells him, grinning. Like mother like son. 

She parks him at the dining room table and has a modest lunch prepared in record time. It hits him now how much he’d gotten used to this, the click of silverware, the low roar of the fireplace, the pitter-patter of feet and the smells of a home. Vincent’s mother passed when he was sixteen, and in the years that passed his grief had been a vast enough thing that thinking of her was an ordeal on its own. He’s long since forgotten her face, can barely conjure her voice in his memory, but he holds on to impressions. A hand on his shoulder in passing during a busy day, a pinch on his cheeks if he spoke to her in Common at home, food that was an eclectic mix of every place she’d ever lived. Vincent’s life has had cycles, and it keeps returning him to good things he has not earned. 

“So how is my Ský? You? Little Tifa?” She asks, as she sits in front of him.

She listens with pride as he tells her a heavily abridged version of their work in Midgar: Cloud and Tifa’s work in the slums, Cloud’s growing friend group, Tifa’s amazing business success. Vincent has kept his promise to protect them, and it has been a true honor. 

“You look good,” Gjertude tells him at one point, reaching out to tug at his hair with a laugh. 

“So do you.” 

Cloud has her smile, when he shows it. 

The next few days are spent helping her pack the bulk of her belongings. The rest are taken up the mountainside for him to burn, because Gjertude is adamant that no one in town deserves to buy what she doesn’t want, even on discount. As she predicted, a few inquisitive neighbors stop by with casseroles or a commission for clothing. Vincent obliges her delighted troublemaking by sitting at her table in plain view, giving them all blank-eyed looks. In the years leading up to their departure for Midgar, Vincent rarely came down from the ShinRa Mansion, and when he did it was with his face covered by his old scarf. The people of Nibelheim are decades behind the rest of the world in most ways, and desperate for anything to break the monotony of the daily grind—including Gjertude. 

When it is time for him to leave, she piles his arms high with food to eat on the journey, and scribbles a little letter for him to give to Cloud and Tifa. 

“You’re sure you can finish the rest of the packing on your own?” 

“Positive,” she says, firmly. “You’ll return with Freida in a few months’ time?” 

“Right.” 

“Run along then, love.” He gets another kiss on the cheek. 

He leaves the food in the truck. It’s night, and only the inn is open, for the adults to drink their boredom away before bed Vincent takes it all in. What an anomaly of a place, to be the site of things ugly and wonderful. 

He takes the familiar path up the mountain, past the mansion, for his other goal. 

The reactor up the hill is one of the few places on Mount Nibel that Cloud avoided, to Vincent’s memory. It stands stalwart and unmonitored, as it has for many years. As is usual of such a place, the fiends surrounding it become more and more twisted as he approaches, mutations and pained cries and odd magic. It feels good to unholster Cerberus and shoot them pointblank, better to release some of the magic that always rumbles beneath his skin, and even better to use it again to burn the remains away. 

He can feel the electric thum of the jammer he brought with him when he thumbs it to life in his coat pockets. He will have, at most, thirty minutes to do this. ShinRa chose most of its reactor locations on the assurance that citizens would not be tempted to tamper with it—sometimes the citizens themselves would be hired for upkeep, a surprisingly grievous oversight that cost them the Huge Materia in Fort Condor, a site they have not visited in years—so security detail is dedicated and routine, but not foolproof, and stupidly amounts to cameras and robotic guards. The hubris of the rich, time and again, will prove to be their weakness. 

It doesn’t take Vincent long to unmask the twisted creations resting in their pods, humans no longer. So many of their faces are twisted into the grimace of rigor mortis, others slack with mako-induced sleep. It is a mercy to kill the ones that are still breathing, and he burns them all regardless, tightly controlled bursts of a mastered firer materia rendering them to the glittering, multi-colored ash that remains after a magical fire.

He enters the chamber nestled into the back of the reactor’s core, and sneers at what he finds. He rips Hojo’s effigy away with his bare hands, and for the first time lays eyes upon the intruder from the stars. 

(“Jenova looks like a woman, but it’s—_not _. Not really,” Cloud said, shakily constructing a sketch for his reference. “That body is its first ever victim. I feel sorry for her.”

And Cloud is by no means an ordinary child, but Vincent hates that he ever read those files. How long has it been plaguing him? Is this the reason why he wanted to leave for Midgar in the first place? What he read of the notes that’d been salvaged from the mansion’s library were horrific—the remains of a Cetra long passed, the power of cells to replicate and corrupt and spread themselves like some sentient cancer, the way that can be manipulated to create freaks of nature to be controlled. Cloud had burned the library months before he awakened Vincent. He hates himself for not thinking of it sooner. The Cetra died for a reason. Maybe this is why.)

Once he breaks the glass of her prison, the smell of rot and ozone hits him like a physical force. The fluid in her tank drains, oozing thick as blood, into the hiss of mako below, leaving behind the mass of wet eldritch flesh it protected. He can hear it fizzle as it meets its end, consumed by the Lifestream. He sets about getting what Cloud asked for—when he scrapes his clawed hand over her skin it sloughs off easy as anything into the empty potion phial he has unscrewed. He fills it to the brim. Another is filled with strands of her hair. After he’s satisfied he has enough, he places the samples a safe distance away and raises his hand, magic churning in his palm.

\--

To Vincent’s surprise, Marlene runs to him when he returns. She stands on tip toe, arms up, entreaty in her eyes, and he pulls her up onto his hip with his good hand.

“Hello,” he tells her. 

“Hi,” she says, and then she buries her little face into his collarbone, apparently content where she is. Children are strange in that way. 

His bounty is unnaturally heavy in his pocket. As promised, Aerith is there to greet him when he returns. He’s met with several murmured greetings by familiar patrons, some associates and some not. Tifa smiles at him and begins making him his preferred drink, a red monstrosity that is more bloody than mary because his body won’t allow him to get drunk. 

“Got everything?” Aerith asks, reaching up to drum up a little pattern into Marlene’s back. It gets her the giggle she was probably aiming for, so she smiles and rubs her back instead, quick circles that always put her right to sleep.

She flinches when Vincent presents the small lockbox to her. A flush rises on her cheeks as she presses her hands on it. It passes just as quickly, leaving her visibly winded. The Turks’ detail on her is one of their most dedicated routines in the slums, yet she and her mother bear it with the serenity of habit. She is also one of the few people who can match Cloud’s worst habits tit for tat. She’s their weirdest little revolutionary, lover of flowers and flowy dresses. He’s seen her glare up at a swaggering man over a foot taller than her and tell him that he was standing in her way, and he’s also seen her dissolve into tears at the sight of a litter of kittens. 

Cloud is mum on what she can possibly do with the remains of the Planet’s biggest malady, but he has faith in her regardless. 

“Tifa, Costa Del Sol iced tea to go, please?” She calls, as they approach the bar. 

Tifa’s brows rise. “Oh yeah?” 

“Extra vodka,” Aerith confirms, staring down at the lockbox. 

“Will everything be alright? Is there any way I can help?” Vincent asks, adjusting Marlene on his hip as she squirms in place.

“Nope! It’s my time to shine!” Aerith says, grinning up at him. 

She leans up to give a dozing Marlene a kiss on the cheek, and then Vincent, and when Tifa presents her with a to-go cup she leans across the bar to kiss her on the cheek too. Tifa sputters, and she breaks out into a giggle. She bustles her way out with the lockbox tucked onto the curve of her hip, pale blue skirts swishing behind her. She takes a healthy sip of her drink, hisses through her teeth and calls out, “Tell Barret I’ll be late for poker tonight!” 

“Her and Cloud are just. Complete nutcases.” Tifa fusses. Vincent can see the smile she’s trying to bite away on the inside of her cheek as she wipes down her cups.

Yes, Vincent thinks, but so is everyone involved in this. Nutcases with a cause. His parents would be proud.

  
  


**2.**

“Just admit it,” Zack tells him, as they’re reviewing footage of the SOLDIER exam. “I’m a good teacher.” 

“You’re an excellent teacher, Zackary,” Sephiroth says, obligingly. 

He can see Zack wince at the use of his full name, by now as much a nickname as anything else. He’d started using it just to annoy him, and it stuck as their association settled from Angeal-enforced to genuine friendship of its own merit.

As a part of the final decision, every SOLDIER called in to grade for the exams—a mix of the cadets’ instructors and those stationed at different areas around the world—review the security cameras’ footage with an eye on different cadets each time. Sephiroth, who can only ever have the time to sit the exams by reminding his superiors of his ridiculous backlog of leave days, is not technically a part of the process. He does his best not to speak up, not wanting to influence the opinions of the scorers. He will allow Zack this, though. It quickly becomes apparent that Cloud Strife will be a SOLDIER. At this point they are scoring him out of due process. 

Completely and utterly defying the expectations he’d built as a promising but sullen trouble maker, Strife is encouraging and helpful to his teammates. He plans and pats backs and gives quick but efficient lessons on the dressing of animals for consumption, how to build fires underground, what enemies can be killed in certain ways. 

“_Strife, did you grow up in the forest or something?_” A teammate asks on screen, laughing. 

Strife says, “_Sometimes_,” which has every one of his instructors expressing various shades of secondhand embarrassment as the rest laugh.

Proceedings are going smoothly until they near the end of the tapes.

“Zack,” Kunsel says, hunching over his clipboard with a squint. “Did you give him that gravity materia?” 

“Yep, why?” 

“It’s. Look, it’s almost completely leveled. Run it back?” He asks. 

The SOLDIER nearest the remote picks it up, and rewinds until Kunsel asks him to stop. On the display, a gaggle of capparwires burst out of the trees, letting out their distinctive clenched-teeth giggle. Thoughtlessly, Strife turns on his heel and reaches for his materia bangle, sending the whole of them into the air in a burst of wicked purple magic.

“Oh, yeah!” Henricks, the Third who’d been assigned to Strife’s group, leans forward. “I think it startled him. I was gonna intervene, but he took them out before I could react.” 

“Gotta be careful with that. He could have put his team in danger. Demi’s no joke.” Kunsel says.

It might be the first time in the past hour or so that Strife missed the opportunity to earn points.

“Cloud has a really hard time handling his reaction to materia. I gave him that because it takes so much out of you, you know? Helps makes it easier to practice.” Zack explains, sheepish. 

“Better get on that, Zack. Still, he’s good.” Kunsel says, giving his friend a reassuring smile.

The obvious caveats are discussed. Strife’s lessening but still present issue with magic, his strange energy, his quiet disdain for authority. Very similar critiques had been leveled towards Professor Hojo when Sephiroth was offered up to SOLDIER. Cloud Strife passes the exam regardless. 

\--

From: special.25@shinra.org

To: cstrife.3rdc@shinra.org

Subject: Congratulations are In Order

SOLDIER Third Cloud Strife, 

I wanted to extend my well wishes for your career moving forward. You did exceptionally well on the SOLDIER exam. Lieutenant-General Fair has been singing your praises since your return to Midgar. Please believe me when I say that many of your future coworkers are tracking your progress with excitement.

Best,  
J.

P.S—If you will accept this piece of uninvited advice, I would avoid the use of gravity materia in situations where your enemies are not likely to pack much of a punch. It is excessive in the least and dangerous to your teammates more often than not. 

From: cstrife.3rdc@shinra.org

To: special.25@shinra.org

Re: Congratulations are In Order

j, 

you bastard, were you there? were you the soldier on my team? i swear i was delirious for half of the test. that mako is no joke. couldn’t there be a less invasive way to test for aptitude? or was the science department just trolling around for potential victims?

(i’m just joking.) 

From: cstrife.3rdc@shinra.org

To: special.25@shinra.org

Re: Congratulations are In Order

(...unless? 😳) 

From: special.25@shinra.org  
To: cstrife.3rdc@shinra.org

Re: Congratulations are In Order

Unless?

From: cstrife.3rdc@shinra.org

To: special.25@shinra.org

Re: Congratulations are In Order

(no seriously please don’t quote me on that)

From: cstrife.3rdc@shinra.org

To: special.25@shinra.org

Re: Congratulations are In Order

thanks for your advice up until now. it was a huge help and not just for the exam, though as you probably saw i still have a lot of learning to do. is it still unsafe for me to know who you are? you realize how fucky that sounds right? tell me who you are so i can take you to get some food. unless you’re shy, that’s okay. i have a lot of shy friends. 

\--

Zack takes every opportunity to brag about his mentee, in the weeks of orientation. 

Sephiroth knows that his pride is not unwarranted. The latest batch of new SOLDIERS was especially promising, and Strife showed promise even as a cadet. President ShinRa refuses to ever tell the public, but it is very rare that newly recruited cadets pass the exam after their first year. The long and short of it is that a tenure in the Regulation Army will give a SOLDIER applicant the edge, every time. Though cadets are routinely taken into the field on practical lessons, the Regulation Army presents the opportunity for long-term practical experience that promotes a well-rounded repertoire of skills. His suggestion to the board that SOLDIER cadets be exclusively funnelled through the Regulation track—after all, though some tend to linger, there are a number of career opportunities in ShinRa’s military that are all essential to its effectiveness and it isn’t uncommon for members to be picked out or migrate towards other fields—had been met with approval, but as with all things, the final word for decisions on SOLDIER falls to Heidegger, and Heidegger didn’t seem to need much time to decide it was too much work. 

He can leverage his uncanny appearance and power for many things. A well-placed frown and stare had done well to improve the diet of their Cadets. At the end of the day, however, ShinRa became a multi-billion gil company by cutting corners wherever possible, and they still don’t spend much money on gambles who have not proven their worth. This year has proven to be especially fruitful for the program. An average amount of opt-outs, a record low amount of failures on the mako aptitude test, and a promising twenty-eight new SOLDIER thirds. Perhaps SOLDIER will look up despite administrative limitations.

\--

He crosses paths with the Vice President in an elevator. 

Sephiroth being summoned to meetings of the executive board is rare, but not rare enough that it doesn’t fill him with a familiar swirl of accepting dread. This is to be a day of endless questions and fearful eyes that don’t quite meet his own aside from Hojo’s, perverse pride in his bespectacled gaze. 

“General,” Rufus says, dipping his head in greeting.

“Vice President.” Sephiroth murmurs. 

“Have you looked much further into the security breach on your floor?” 

It does not give him pause that Rufus knows of the breach. All reports are funneled through the Turks. What gives him pause is the intent look being leveled his way. Rufus is one of few people who is not intimidated by him in any way that matters, and for Sephiroth—who already has difficulty reading most nonverbal cues—it makes him especially difficult to get a read on. 

“I have tried.” He answers. Long story short. 

Rufus stares at him a little longer. Then he nods, as if arriving at a decision. “It wasn’t the first. It hasn’t been the last.” 

“Oh?” 

“Some of my Turks are convinced we’re staring down the barrel of large-scale change. Keep an eye out, will you?

\--

It’s not uncommon for Genesis to begin their daily string of group messages with a quote from Loveless to “start their day,” never mind that everyone existing in proximity to him has the whole thing memorized whether they want to or not. 

What follows is typically a simple word of encouragement from Angeal, then a lull will follow until, inevitably, one of them drops a complaint about their work or a wry observation about their coworkers. Zack is a terrible flirt, and they’ve made a game out of chronicling his successes and failures. Sephiroth makes sticky notes of his assistant's perplexing but useful words of wisdom to be shared later—this week’s reigning favorite is “Barbie says: keep your mouth closed when plunging a toilet.”

This morning, Genesis messages them:

_ To become the dew that quenches the land _ _  
_ _ To spare the sands, the seas, the skies _ _  
_ _ I offer thee this silent sacrifice. _

Angeal asks, _ Found a new poem to torture us with? _

Genesis says, _ Perish the thought. _

Sephiroth searches everywhere for some hidden verse of Loveless. It’s a bit foolish, to follow in the footsteps of so many academics disappointed by a trite tale lost to the ages. He finds speculation, of course. The diary of an Ancient? The work of a particularly romantic northern explorer? No one knows, and generations of translations and reinterpretations have only made it more difficult to decipher. Of course Genesis would be so attracted to something so frustrating. 

\--

The day mako therapy for the newly inducted Thirds begins, Zack sends him a brief text that says, _ Cloud txted me he’s not having a good time with the mako and they’re saying he may have to go to Hojo _

_ That’s unfortunate. _Sephiroth replies, unsure of what else to say. They both know there is not much to be done when the professor sees fit to intervene. 

_ Can take the rest of the day off to go sit with him? _ Another text follows on the heels of this one. _ I’ll sign all your paperwork 🙏🏽 _

Zack has always seemed to think that everyone is as prone to shirking the boring part of their work as he is, but it’s a tempting offer regardless—not that he hadn’t already made up his mind. 

_ Report in at 0600 tomorrow morning. _

As he was expecting, Zack is several hours late. Sephritoh is too consumed by his personal research to be overly bothered about it. The pizza is a bonus.

\--

With Strife officially on the roster, Zack takes every opportunity he can accompany him on missions, to drag him to the simulations for running scenarios. Cloud quickly begins building a reputation similar to Zack’s: he attacks his work like a man possessed, spending several periods on call and then racking up days of leave that Lazard has no choice but to approve if only to maintain appearances as an ethical employer. He’s staring down a promotion, but he hasn’t ever stricken Sephiroth as the type of person to do his work with an eye for accolades. He prefers the sword, but Sephiroth has heard tell of him using everything from long-range rifles to hammers to even umbrellas as a weapon. Utilitarian to the core, and fiercely protective of his squad. The ideal of what SOLDIER could be if it operated under a company that had the world’s best interests in mind.

It is, therefore, no surprise when Zack insists on bringing him along to a mission in Nibelheim. Sephiroth had taken one cursory look at the mission write up and rolled his eyes, knowing it was by and large a show of force.

(“Reactor malfunctions my ass,” Zack had said, snorting.)

Someone in a small, easily intimidated town has gotten too big for their britches and messed around with ShinRa property, and ShinRa as always, is responding with a show of force disproportionate to the issue in sending some of their most decorated SOLDIERS.

“Cloud grew up here, man,” Zack says. “It’ll look like more of a show of faith that way.” 

Lazard signs off with a sigh. “It really is overkill, don’t you think?” 

**\--**

From: cstrife.3rdc@shinra.org

To: special.25@shinra.org

Subject: Nibelheim Bah Humbug

j,

the lieutenant-general has brain worms so i’ve been assigned to routine detail to my hometown. get this—the general is going to be there. the general. they literally didn’t need to send anyone else. the lieutenant-general thinks it’ll be “character building” lol. there are only like two people there i like and one of them gave birth to me.

anyways i wanted to ask if i couldn’t entice you into getting some fucking lunch with me if i bring home some idols for you to nerd out over. my mom almost wrote a novel the last time i asked her for more info about the aesir………….. i’m sure she’d……… have more to say if you could generate more questions…..

From: special.25@shinra.org  
To: cstrife.3rdc@shinra.org  
Re: Nibelheim Bah Humbug 

SOLDIER Third Strife, 

Regardless of your frustrations with your hometown, it is my hope that the visit will do you some good. If nothing else, it should be worth it to see your mother. There is no need to bring me idols of any sort, but I thank you for your consideration. It’s unlikely you’ll have good reception in the mountains, so you’ll have to tell me how your trip went when you return.

Best,

J.

**\--**

Mako treatments eliminate the possibility of running into most common ailments, but the psychosomatic has power. 

“I fucking hate the mountains,” Strife says, cradling his head between his hands. 

Gently, Zack says, “You grew up in the mountains, bud.” 

“Why do you think I left? Gods, the rain isn’t helping either.” He groans, face looking distinctly green when the trooper driving them up the trail hits another rough patch.

Zack pats him on the back. Restless as ever, he paces for a bit. He checks on the other trooper assigned to them. “Everything alright?” 

He gets a starstruck nod, and as he playfully pokes at the trooper’s shoulder, Sephiroth is endlessly grateful that troopers don’t remove their helmets often. An idle Zack is a deeply bored one, and he can tell that his unoccupied mind is fraying away at the limits of professionalism and he’d rather not hear him flirt. It’s a rough patch that must be smoothed over in the future, but Zack has a while yet before he will see the same duties as Sephiroth, Genesis, and Angeal. 

“Hey,” Sephiroth calls to him. “Settle down.” 

“They gave me some new materia,” Zack announces, out of nowhere, dropping into squats. “I can’t wait to use it.”

“Just like a kid.” Sephiroth sighs, leaning back on his uncomfortable seat of boxes. 

“You going to brief us about this mission?” 

Yet again, zipping from subject to subject. 

He explains their objective, which is simple: the elimination of creatures around the reactor, and investigating the source of its malfunction. It’s likely that there is no malfunction at all—all living creatures that can survive the warped environment near mako reactors are unusually strong. But Sephiroth did not make his way to his position by covering only half of his bases, so they will check anyway.

Zack entertains himself bothering Strife on the way up the mountain. The play rock-paper-scissors and scribble a game of tic-tac-toe into Zack’s arm. 

An hour or so later, their transport rocks with the interference of an especially large force. 

“S-Sir, something strange just crashed into the truck!” The trooper up front calls, voice tight with fear. 

Strife is the first one on his feet, bursting forth with a gasping cry of relief. 

Waiting for them is an infamous Nibel dragon. Sephiroth can tell by its size that it is young, and by the gleam in its eyes that it was likely hatched near the reactor. He calls Masamune forth, falling into a ready stance.

“I love this so far,” Zack calls to Strife, over the storm. “You really lived like this?” 

He looks thrilled. An ambient flash of lightning catches on his eyes, the glint of mako giving him a ghostly countenance. 

“Yeah, I totally spent my days shimmying down the mountainside, hoping to be fucking eaten!” Strife hollers back. 

The dragon shrieks at them. Cloud raises a hand, and casts a brilliant burst of Demi at the thing’s head. It’s beautifully controlled, swirling around its neck as if in a bubble. He has been practicing. 

The battle ends with a decisive slash of Masamune, and before long they make their way back into the truck, totally drenched. 

“Seph, you look like a drowned rat.” Zack says, breaking into another grin. 

“I think you should be concerned that your hair is still sticking up, Zackary,” Sephiroth tells him. He’s never been able to figure out if it’s gel or an unfortunate genetic lot, as it is with Strife. 

“You’re like a porcupine,” Strife adds, helpfully. 

Some time later, they arrive outside Nibelheim’s gates. Strife takes a deep breath once they are free from the boxy confines of the truck, looking entirely out of place in the muted browns and greens of this little village. 

“So, how does it feel?” Sephiroth asks him. “To be home after all this time? I have no hometown. I wouldn’t know.” 

Strife gives him a look that is unfoundedly sad. 

“Uh.. what about family?” Zack ventures, concerned.

“My mother’s name is Jenova. She died shortly after I was born. My father…” The nervous laugh of his youth leaves him without his permission. “Why am I talking about this?

“My mom’ll let us spend the night. No use spending money on the Inn, especially when everyone there will just be staring at you the whole time.” Strife says, giving him a kind smile. 

“Oh dude, I have so many embarrassing stories to tell your mom.” Zack crows.

Sephiroth gives the okay. Zack reaches out to squeeze his shoulder as they pass. 

“Mama,” Cloud says, to the woman that opens the door. 

She is pleasantly round, and shorter even than him, but in most things, he is her mirror image.

“Oh, you,” She says, her eyes filling with tears. “Come, come.” 

She’s waving her hands up at him, and he laughs, leaning down so that she can run her hands over his face, marveling loudly at new freckles and scars. She squeezes his shoulders and pats his biceps, proudly proclaiming that he’s such a strong boy, and what are they feeding him in that city of sin, for the love of Frigg? 

She says something to him that must be in their language. He laughs again, spreading his arms wide as he turns in a slow circle. He speaks to her in the same tongue, rapidfire and warm, smiling through each word. He looks almost like an entirely different person—like the ordinary boy he could be, in a different life.

Zack gives Sephiroth a bright smile. “I think this is the most I’ve ever seen the kid emote in the space of like a few seconds.” 

When Cloud finishes his little turn, he scoops his mother up into a hug, easily lifting her from the ground. She shrieks out a laugh, swatting at his back. And then she drops her head, sobbing briefly into his shoulder. By the time he lets her down, her eyes are tellingly red, but her face is clear. 

“You know you’re the best thing I have ever made, yes?” She asks, her grip tight on his gloved hands. 

He nods. “You’re pretty creative.”

She boxes him on the ears. It’s unlikely that it hurts, but his shoulders rise anyway, knee-jerk.

She puts her hands on her hips and addresses their little troupe. “Right, then. I’m Gjertude. Come in.”

“You didn’t tell me you had a sister, Cloud,” Zack lays it on thick. 

“Stop,” she titters, waving him off.

Cloud’s childhood home is fittingly quaint. It’s larger on the inside than it appears from the outside. Curiously, boxes are scattered throughout the living room, which Gjertude bashfully explains are in preparation for a move (“My boy is paying for it, can you believe that? I raised such a good child.”). 

Zack gravitates towards a little end table that is covered in photos. “Cloud, you had long hair? Holy s—crap!”

Strife rolls his eyes. Curious, Sephiroth approaches the table as well. Gjertude walks over to them with pride in her eyes. “Ský has grown so much, hasn’t he? Little Tifa pulled his hair in practice one day, and he came home saying, ‘Mama, I need to cut all my hair now.’ How ridiculous! He’s always been so single-minded.” 

Sephiroth watches Cloud Strife grow up in a series of photos. As a child, he is often bundled up in furs of some sort. Sometimes he is joined by a tall man with long dark hair and a piercing gaze (“I know that guy!” “That’s Vincent, he’s a dear friend to us.” “Vincent? Not Chosokabe?”). Sometimes he poses with a girl about his age, their hands covered in bandages. With some amusement, Zack recognizes her as Tifa, who apparently lives in Midgar under the plate. In others, he is wrapped around a fluffy looking canine that practically undergoes the same cycle of growth as he does. 

Zack snorts at these. “I can’t believe Freida was ever small.” 

Strife pinches him in the arm. “She’s _ toned_, shut up.” 

There are only two bedrooms, and Gjertude archly tells them that she can give them blankets to sleep on the floor and if it’s too much for their big city sensibilities, the Inn is right across the street. No one protests, especially with the promise of being housed by the fireplace for the night. The troopers who joined them from the Regulation Army are bitterly unused to the cold. 

After getting settled, they make their way back out. Townsfolk watch them with shameless interest, whispering and pointing. Someone is bold enough to ask for a photo, and they take it with their guide, a young woman who can barely raise her eyes to meet their face. She’d given Cloud a bashful greeting, and he'd seemed quietly amused by her. When the camera is focused on them, the shyness melts away at the opportunity of being photographed with so many of ShinRa’s elite. 

**\--**

They pass the mansion on the way up the mountain path. Sephiroth feels a strange pull in his chest at the sight of it.

Following his gaze, Strife says, “There’s literally nothing of value in there, sir.” 

“Have you ever been inside?” 

“Plenty of times. It’s just—dusty beds and weak Dorky Faces with bad breath.”

Giving it one last look, Sephiroth follows. 

On the mountain, they encounter monsters that are as powerful as can be expected for an area naturally high in mako. To their credit, the citizens of Nibelheim live below one of the largest sources of natural mako Sephiroth has ever seen with his own two eyes. It justifies their fear, and also proves even further that ShinRa was not completely inaccurate in their assessment of the reactor’s influence. It is likely speeding up a process that would have happened on its own over time.

The sight of a mako fountain brings even Zack to an awed silence, and their group gathers around it with wide-eyes as he explains its rarity. Hojo once scolded him for calling the power of materia “magic” aloud, but there will never be a better word for it. There are simply some things that cannot be explained within the confines of their knowledge.

Sephiroth can smell the scent of something burning before they reach the reactor proper, but when they enter the forerooms, nothing is visibly amiss. It is only when they reach the chamber door at its core that they realize that something has gone terribly wrong. Several robotic guards are laid out in front of it, decommissioned peacefully. The door itself is fused completely shut, its control panel ripped out of its socket entirely. 

“Looks like someone had a grudge.” Strife says, lowly. 

“You _ think_?” Zack barks out a laugh.

It’s not a new interference. “Stand back.” 

They watch with wide eyes as Sephiroth approaches the door. When he asks for an ice materia, Zack throws him his mastered one, watching with fascination as Sephiroth summons his blade and affixes the materia to its base. It is absorbed instantly—he will have to give Zack the gil to replace it. 

His blade always sings with use but it takes to ice magic in particular, and the ring of it is shrill as Sephiroth uses it to swipe vertically at the door. Then, after putting Masamune away, he curls it around where a small depression has been made between the doors and pushes, wincing at the ripple of contesting magic underneath his gloved skin. He does not scar often—it will definitely heal—but the sensation of sustaining a wound intense enough to cause one is rare enough to cause discomfort. The spine-tingling sensation of a cure hits him, but he ignores it in favor of pushing harder. With a wrencing groan, the panels of the door are thrown back into the wall.

Before him is a sliver of grated floor, and an enormous crater that gives way to bubbling mako below. Alarmed, he takes a step back. 

“What?” Zack calls. “What is it? Why does it smell so strong?” 

Sephiroth moves out of the way, allowing them to get a glimpse of the destruction laid before them. Strife falls to his knees, a hand flying up to cup his nose.

“Damn,” Zack breathes. 

This is not the work of an amateur, and is is definitely not the work of someone outside of ShinRa. This is undeniably connected to the security breach on his floor and whatever had the Vice President so on edge. He instructs Zack to take photos, and makes several observations in his phone to be written up into a report later. 

“Are you well, Strife?” 

“Yeah. Guess I just haven’t settled into my treatments as well as I thought I had.” 

“You will acclimate with time.” Sephiroth says. If the boy is still looking queasy once they make their way down the mountain, he will cast a cure. 

The mystery solved, they reseal the door for safekeeping and make their way back down the mountain. Once again, Sephiroth is drawn towards the mansion. 

“Please don’t, sir.” Strife says. 

A tense moment passes in silence, and then Sephiroth nods, feeling more tired than he has in a long time.

**\--**

“Do you play chess, General?” Strife asks, after most everyone has retired for the night. Along with Gjertude, they are the only ones still awake. Strife spent several minutes curled up by the fireplace, trading words with his mother in Old Nibel.

They prepare the chess set on the dining room table and begin a low-stakes game. Before she retires to bed, Gjertude pauses to pull Strife’s growing hair away from his forehead and press a series of smacking kisses onto it. He endures this treatment with a smile, and squeezes her hand as she bids them goodnight. 

Sephiroth’s curiosity drives him to break the silence of their game. “Why were you so adamant about avoiding the manor, Strife?”

Strife shrugs, not looking up from where he’d been puzzling the board. “I played there a lot as a kid. I didn’t really have friends for a long time. Like I said, It’s just not a place that has any value, sir. I actually took the last thing that did—some ugly old necklace with gems—and sold it so I could buy some dinner for my mother.” 

He’s so strangely, refreshingly frank. It was the same thing that drew Sephiroth to Genesis and Angeal when they were young, and the same thing that had softened his doubts about Zackary. Strife is a young man of very few words, but they are always truthful. If he does not want to share something, he simply won’t talk, and will refuse outright if prompted.

Sephiroth hums in understanding. They pass the next few rounds in silence. Sephiroth has obvious control of the center. Strife cheats unashamedly to elongate the game, a surprisingly, quietly playful thing to do. Each time Sephiroth gives him a quelling look, it is returned with a bland, owlish stare.

“So,” Sephiroth says, after another few moments of playing in silence. “It seems like your materia use has improved sharply. I guess my advice worked, after all.” 

Strife pauses with a rook in hand, giving Sephiroth an assessing look. “J?”

Sephiroth rests his chin in his palm. 

To his surprise, Strife gives him a tiny smile, immediately softening the sullen look of him.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” He says.

“Likewise.” 

“Are the cadets eating okay now?” 

“I’m proud to say they are. They’re a big fan of the plums, I hear.” 

Strife’s smile widens. “I’m not sorry for being insubordinate. Sir.” 

“No need. It was refreshing.” He regrets admitting it only a little bit.

\--

From: cstrife.3rdc@shinra.org

To: general01.1stc@shinra.org

Re: Materia Control

General, 

Thanks again for your detailed wrap-up of our work the other day. I spoke to the Lieutenant-General about incorporating your ideas in our training regimen and he said he will adjust my schedule accordingly. I hope you’re recovering from our mission with speed. 

Best,

Cloud Strife

SOLDIER Third Class

From: cstrife.3rdc@shinra.org

To: special.25@shinra.org, 

Subject: Traditional Soups

j, 

pretty wack of you to eat all the kjötsúpa when you visited but i’ll just take that as a sign that my mom’s cooking goes. she wrote me up some recipes so i typed them up for you too. somebody with a metabolism like yours needs to eat more often.

\--

Hojo’s face is drawn with anger when Sephiroth arrives for their biweekly check-in. This in itself is not so unnatural. He is prone to insufferable shifts of temper, ranging from eerily paternalistic to distant to downright churlish. The explanation is found in his appearance, though—his eye is covered in a bandage, and there is an ugly scar creeping from underneath the taped gauze. When he approaches Sephiroth’s gurney, his limp is especially pronounced. 

“How was your mission to Nibelheim, Sephiroth?” He asks. 

He rarely calls Sephiroth by his name.

“It went about as well as it could have, professor. Someone—attacked the reactor.” 

“Yes, I saw,” Hojo sneers, preparing his equipment. “Entirely undetected. They destroyed years of hard _ work_.” 

The last word is punctuated by a clambering of metal, Hojo’s shaking hands hovering over needles and clippers and stethoscopes of different strength. 

Ah. 

Sephiroth turns his head, thankful that the curtain of his hair disguises the smile creeping onto his face. “That’s unfortunate.” 

“Don’t mock me, boy.” Hojo says. 

“Of course not.” 

“Was it you?” 

“It was not.” 

He wishes he could say it was. It surprises him very little that Hojo’s machinations are coming back to haunt him. He wonders who it was and how they were wronged, but in the end it doesn’t matter. Hojo is rattled, and though he will probably feel the brunt of it soon, it is viscerally satisfying to witness nonetheless. 

Hojo levels a shaking finger at his face. “That idiot Gast might have worked his worst habits into you, but I’ll never allow you to forget what you are, boy. No matter how many pathetic people worm their way into your life, no matter how many of them you let yourself _ think _ you love, you have a purpose and you _ will _ meet it.” 

“Of course, professor.” 

With a growl of irritation, Hojo shuffles out of the room. Once he is gone, one of his most long-standing aides, an older woman who’d doubled as Sephiroth’s nanny in his earlier days, approaches him. He has never known her name. He is not allowed to know the names of many people in the labs, likely to avoid attachment, not that it worked (or that he hadn’t come up with names of his own, as a child.)

“I wish you wouldn’t provoke him.” Nanny says, looking fond nonetheless as she walks him through the motions. Pulse, the integrity of his teeth, nail clippings, eye dilation, even a peek at the roots of his hair. The more invasive procedures will begin soon. 

“I wasn’t,” Sephiroth says. 

They share a look, her hazel on his unnatural green. A dimple creases the deep brown of her skin as she purses her lips into a smirk.

Nanny pats him on the cheek. “You’re a good kid.” 

He wants to tell her that good kids deserve childhoods outside of sterile boxes. He breathes in and helps her auscultate his lungs instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there! 
> 
> thanks as always to danny for braving our crazy timezone difference to get this spruced up!
> 
> 2019 has been incredibly rough for me, so it's nice to be able to send off a shitty year by getting this out to you all. it feels so good to be creating things for fun again. i hope you all start 2020 on a high note. much love


	8. The End 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo! first chapter of the new year, hey? i want to warn for a few things. 
> 
> this chapter discusses some of the sadder aspects of the wutai war, and also explores experimenting on children and adults, but mostly children. i didn't describe much of it in what i would consider explicit detail, but i think it's worth warning for regardless.
> 
> also, the different sections of the chapters leading up to this one have been more or less running parallel to each other or sequentially. some of the sections in this chapter cover much larger sections of time and touch on or resolve things mentioned in earlier chapters. so i hope this is still easy to follow. it'll probably be fine, but i worry. 
> 
> if any of these things makes reading this chapter difficult for you, let me know and i can come back in for further editing.

**1.**

It’s something of a tradition for Corneo’s workers to peep on each other through keyholes in work rooms. He allows it, because a little gossip and rapport is good for morale, and it's educational for the newer hires. What they don’t know is that Corneo has a “peephole” of his own in the break rooms—hidden cameras that allow him to keep track of who is doing what they should be and who isn’t. Honeybees are thick as thieves, protective of even the most annoying new worker for solidarity’s sake, and they spill their secrets and client stories like housewives discussing the neighborhood on a grocery run. 

For the past year or so, his staff have been speaking about a newbie in Midgar. He’s learned that the boy is named Cloud, he’s from some podunk town out west, is apparently a sweetheart, and is now a member of SOLDIER. Sometime towards the end of last year his Honeybees would call him and put him on speaker phone, shouting out questions about his travels, and they’d all expressed various forms of delight when he’d tiredly announced his acceptance into the program. 

It’s technically against the rules to have friends and family in the break rooms, but this is another rule he put in place for the sole purpose of building morale. There is harmless fun to be had in nipping at forbidden—if low hanging—fruit. It brings them great pleasure to bring in someone bashful at displays of nudity and bawdy tales. And ultimately, the happier they are, the less likely they are to approach him with petty complaints. 

Today, they bring Cloud in for the first time, and Corneo doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many of his workers smiling and laughing at the same time.

“Everyone,” Carlotta is saying, “say hello to our new SOLDIER boy.” 

When they clap he dips into a theatrical but oddly practiced curtsey, miming spreading long skirts over his delicately bent knees. With swats at his arms and gently grabbing hands, they maneuver him into a chair by the row of vanities along the back wall, forming a messy half-circle around him. 

This kid, this Cloud, does nothing Corneo expects him to. Over the course of an hour or so, he gossips, answers their questions about SOLDIER, endures playful makeovers and attempts at wrangling his hair. He’s entirely unaffected by their various states of undress (though he does politely avert his eyes if someone comes close or stretches into position to change clothes), and listens to their tales of their more colorful clients with only wry amusement and none of the lascivious interest that could be expected from a boy his age. 

“So, at least one of you has to have a Turk regular, right?” 

“A lady never kisses and tells, Cloud,” Jolene says, tugging on his cheek. 

“If you’re looking for specifics I gotta remind you of client confidentiality, hun,” Hugo says, squeezing the boy’s shoulder on the way to a vanity. 

He playfully hip-checks Marie out of the way, and then plucks the lipstick out of her hand for good measure. As she whines in protest, he paints his lips electric blue, ruffling his tight curls into a windswept look. Clients are still crazy about his unusual, cherubic looks. 

“I’m not looking for names. We have to work with them sometimes at SOLDIER. Honestly I don’t really know many of their names. It’s just that they’re all so mysterious, I was curious if they had lives outside of the company.” Cloud says. 

This gets him a few laughs, which he is visibly confused by, though he smiles anyway.

Carlotta takes pity on him, “They definitely do.” 

After a beat, one of the newer workers (Corneo doesn’t bother to remember their names until he is sure of their place in the roster) bursts out with, “One of them asked for an hour just to put her head on my boobs. I felt so sad for her. Like what if her mother didn’t love her?” 

“You stupid bitch,” Another girl guffaws, and soon they’re all giggling into their hands, including the new girl who lets out a gasping laugh and hides her red face once she realizes her mistake. 

Cloud says, “That is pretty weird, Laney.” When she looks up at him he gives her a little smile, which she returns gratefully between the cracks of her fingers.

Despite the comfort, she’s made a true gaffe and it won’t be forgotten until she proves herself. Some Honeybees have stories about their clients that belong in TV dramas. While no doubt unsettling for her, it won’t be the first time she’ll face a weird request. If she stays on long enough, she will soon realize how silly the complaint will seem.

“Get this,” someone else pops up. It takes Corneo a moment to recognize her as rising star Nicky, favored for her red hair and freckled face. “I have a Turk regular who spends like half his time complaining about his job. I can’t tell you some of the stuff for obvious reasons, but like, the other day he was so mad because all he had to do was listen to people talk. Imagine getting a weekly pay of more than I’ll make in a year to talk and complaining about it.” 

“Listen to them talk how?” Cloud asks, clasping his hands together. 

“Okay have you heard how, um, AVALANCHE has been gearing up more lately?” 

“Who hasn’t?” Cloud snorts. 

“Do you guys have to fight them in SOLDIER?” Carlotta asks. Then, pausing, she leans into his face. “Hey, your eyes really ARE glowing!” 

This draws the cooing interest of much of the room, and Cloud laughingly obliges their curiosity. (“Hey, are you gonna sprout tentacles?” “Were your teeth always this jagged, babe? You’re a circus show now, you were so scrawny when you first got here! Can I file ‘em for you or will they just grow back?”)

“Shut up!” Nicky calls, drawing their attention back towards the conversation. “Anyways, he says the folks at ShinRa want to keep an eye out. I say it’s dumb. They’re all hacks and all they do is make it harder for all of us down here.” 

Murmurs of agreement. Cloud hums, sounding thoughtful. Other stories follow, and soon much of Corneo’s Honeybees are cackling with delight over Turks in lingerie and bored ShinRa higher ups bragging about their opulent but unsatisfying lifestyles.

“You guys need anything?” Cloud asks.

Yes! They do! Some covet the newest palette of a wildly expensive makeup line that can only be found in an upper plate boutique. Someone’s little brother needs to be picked up from school all of next week. Others have been craving pasta. Could Barret scare off some creeps who have been loitering out back during their smoke breaks? 

“You gonna send a SOLDIER boy to us? I wanna know what kinda power they have in those hips!” 

“Okay,” Cloud says, slapping his thighs as he stands, to the groaning disappointment of much of the room. “Time for me to dip. Someone’ll get back to you on all that!” 

Half of his face is covered in makeup and his hair is done into little braids decorated with bows, but he doesn’t seem to mind. The workers see him out with a flurry of good well-wishes. Many of them are late to appointments, which normally wouldn’t do, but Corneo will offer his excuses and let it slide for now. This answers so many questions. The lessening complaints about workload or pay, the outfits bought with money he knew some workers just don’t have. Half of his work strategy—tension and obligation—nearly made obsolete by some nosy little brat. Unbelievable. 

\--

He does some asking around and learns a few things. Cloud Strife, sixteen, born in Nibelheim to a single mother. He and his little circle are the darlings of the sprawling mess of slums mutual aid, and despite his amused dismissal of AVALANCHE, he rubs shoulders with them in the new bar in Sector 7. He’s gone for long swaths of time, but the loyalty he’s cultivated sees to it that his presence is still felt. Corneo feels an inordinate amount of frustration for allowing this to balloon right underneath his nose. Part of his agreement with ShinRa relies on his control of the slums’ underground, and part of that control is steepled in asserting a presence over the people below. If he reaches out to ShinRa, undoubtedly they will question if he’s fit for the job. If he continues to let it spiral, he will seem unfit when they speak again regardless. It’s not like they don’t have eyes on everything, but his position is unique.

Sending some of his goons to 7th Heaven asking after him ends badly; they are summarily kicked ass over chest by the owner, and return to him with their tails tucked between their legs. They’re bruised and bloody and one of them has a bald spot. What is wrong with the youth these days?

His Honeybees are visibly shaken by his curiosity, but for the most part honest in that they don’t know where he can be found. He lives above the plate, this much is obvious, and to be fair the SOLDIER program is elite and small; but again, he runs into the issue of alerting ShinRa that he’s in a tight spot. 

Corneo manages to weasel the kid’s phone number out of one of the younger girls, who’d been fearful of him from the start. If the rest find out she snitched she’ll have a difficult time, but that is not Corneo’s problem. Corneo brings her into his office at the end of each day for a phone call under threat of pay reduction. Most days, it goes straight to voicemail, heralded by the brief message of “If it’s an emergency, call Tifa,” and then a notification that the inbox is too full to accept further messages. And then, on the ninth day in a row, Cloud Strife picks up. 

“Aisha, are you okay?” He demands. 

Aisha, still looking shell-shocked that they got an answer in the first place, gives Corneo a wide-eyed look and says, “...No?”

“What’s been going on? Is it serious? Tifa told me she hasn’t heard from you.”

“Uh, kinda…”

Aisha gives him a wide-eyed look, and Corneo scribbles down a quick message. Utter bullshit about wanting to see a doctor on the plate and being afraid of getting lost in the sprawling layout of the floating city. Aisha, proving to be smarter than Corneo thought she was, adds that “It’s for an embarrassing reason and I didn’t want anyone else to know why.” 

On the other line, there’s a rustling of fabric as Strife says, “I understand. Are you safe?” 

Aisha smiles, briefly and privately, as if Corneo isn’t there at all. Something about it grates at him. “Yeah, I’m safe. Thanks. What’s all that noise? Where are you?” 

“On assignment out of the city. Gotta change uniforms really quick or else the grandma we’re staying with will try to touch my ass again.” 

“Hey, you got a nice ass for a white boy!”

A barking laugh. “You guys are awful…” 

“When will you be back?” 

“Two days is my generous estimate. Will you be okay until then?”

“Yeah, don’t worry.” 

“Whatever, I do what I want. Talk soon.” 

The line goes dead. Aisha deflates, her phone held tightly in her hands. Corneo dismisses her, strangely frustrated with the whole exchange. 

\--

Aisha leads Strife to his office by the end of the week. 

Strife sighs. “I might have guessed. You alright?” He asks her. 

She shrugs. Strife turns to Corneo. “What do you want?” 

Unbalanced, Corneo blurts, “Stay out of my territory.” 

“No,” Strife says, “anything else?”

“I’ll fire her if you don’t!” 

“I could pay every person that works for you and still live just fine.” 

Aisha is gaping at Strife. Corneo is itching to press the button and release the both of them to the sewers, but his pets will not withstand a SOLDIER’s might for long. 

Strife approaches his desk, pauses to stare at the planners and books that are stacked, and pushes them slowly and quietly to the floor. Corneo is embarrassed at the film of dust that is removed as they inch away. Then Strife plants his hand on Corneo’s desk and leans in. 

“You don’t have the upper hand here. You’ll show ShinRa just how incompetent you are by trying anything stupid. Make no mistake, AVALANCHE is not a threat. I am. Try this again and you’ll regret it. We’re not getting in your way, if anything we’re helping you, whether you know it or not. You’re a figurehead, Don. You’re replaceable.”

Then he stands up straight, adjusting the collar of his jacket. “Since you gave Aisha this time off, I’m taking her up to the plate anyway. Dinner and a movie. If I bring her back and you haven’t made a decision on what you’re gonna do, I’ll decide for you. Don’t waste my time.” 

He spends the next few hours or so dialing numbers rapidfire, calling favor after favor. People outside of the Inn from under the plate laugh him off or refuse outright when he tells them the job. The troopers in the Regulation Army who owe him, too big for their britches, scoff at the idea of clearing up “some gang war,” even at the prospect of money. Cowards all. 

He’s still dining when they return, but this time they’re accompanied by the largest canine Corneo has ever seen. A wolf in Midgar. 

“This is Freida, my dog!” Strife says, full of cheer. 

“That’s not a dog.” Corneo says, eyeing the creature warily. 

He regrets making eyes with her, because she bares a wide display of wicked looking teeth. 

“What do you mean? She’s a totally normal dog. She was actually the runt of her litter.” Strife says, patting the scruff of her neck. 

“What point are you trying to prove, asshole?” Corneo asks. 

He wants to reach into his desk to find his pistol, but each time he moves the barest inch, the creature tilts her head, shifting forward. It looks like it could clear a lot of ground fast.

“Did you know that dogs like Freida can live for up to twenty years in captivity? She’s about eleven. We pretty much grew up together, but I’m pretty sure she thinks I”m her baby. She’s hale and healthy. At the height of her middle age. And she’s bored.” Strife tells him this with all the air of reading off the newspaper. 

Aisha is standing at his back, glancing restlessly between them. “Cloud…” 

“Nah, we’re fine. I just wanted to let the Don know she’s looking for playmates. She won’t be around for much longer, but she’s _ always _,” he stresses this last word, “looking to protect. And when she’s gone, so will everyone else I work with. You might wanna doublecheck who works for you, by the way, and I don’t mean the Honeybees. We good?” 

Desperate to get him to leave, Corneo says, “Yes, I understand! Gods, this city!”

“Is my city.” Strife says, over his shoulder. He’s already leading his pet and one of Corneo’s best new employees out of his office, bustling, weirdly calm. 

\--

A few of his Honeybees quit after that night; Corneo does not see them around again. He has Aps sniff for the wolf, but can find her nowhere. He does not sleep well for weeks, but before long, things settle into something resembling normalcy. If he feels like he is being watched, then, that is not so weird for the slums, and neither is being randomly and abruptly barred from spaces once open to him. Times change. He will adapt, he will collect a paycheck from his business and from ShinRa, and the world will turn.

  
  
  
  


**2.**

“Hey, mom?” 

Darina considers herself an expert on her son’s moods. The slow, hesitant crawl of his voice spells sadness and confusion. She can almost see the boyish downturn of his lips in her mind’s eye. 

“Tell me what happened, Zack.” 

A sigh. “How about you tell me about your day first? Still having trouble with the neighbor’s kid?” 

She has, certainly. The girl is a cute, snot-nosed little thing, and she has an infuriating tendency to run into the jungle and then come back slimy, green, and in need of a pricy maiden’s kiss. Darina will never admit to anyone that she’s started buying them in anticipation of the girl’s unfortunate run-in with Touch Mes. The cheerful width of her smile, given freely, the messy tuft of her tight curls, the scraped knees and ratty clothes that never quite fall apart—the whole package reminds her of Zack at the height of his childhood tyranny, all energy and charm.

“When am I not?” She asks, knowing good and well that her son is attempting to draw her attention away from his melancholy. It’s a familiar song and dance, one she cherishes for all it annoys her sometimes. She can never tell him no. 

“You thought about adopting her?”

“Oh, hush,” Darina says, propping her phone up onto her shoulder as she reaches for the nearby duster. 

She’d been doing some light dusting when he called, not particularly because the house needing cleaning but her mind needed occupying. She’s been grappling with a strange nervousness that manifests in the form of clenching chest and a fluttering stomach, like her body is anticipating something awful. 

“I’m not joking! You said her parents kinda suck and I’ve always wanted a sister…” 

“How about you tell me what’s got you so sad, young man?” She asks, interrupting this particular thought before it can snowball into the unbearable. 

“I got a haircut today and really upset a friend?” 

“Care to elaborate on how those two things can possibly be related?” She asks, chuckling. If nothing else, Zack will always make her laugh. 

Zack laughs, too, even though he’s protesting her question. That’s just the kind of person he is—head full of sunshine. “Let me finish, huh? So rude!” 

“Don’t make me hop on the next boat…” 

“No, mom! No. But anyways, that’s the thing, I don’t, like. Know why. You remember Cloud?” 

“How can I forget!” Of all the things he has accomplished, he seems too be most proud of forcibly pulling this Cloud out of his shell. It’s good that he has a friend his age. He’d been far too young when he left for SOLDIER, but ShinRa has never cared about that. 

“I got a haircut! That’s literally it! You know how your hair grows when you’re into a new round of mako. I just wanted to do something different. Tell me why I walk into the training rooms and Cloud goes, ‘That doesn’t suit you, change it back?’ That little brat!” 

“Well, how bad does it look?” 

“_ Ma _,” he whines.

“Send me a photo later.” 

“Yes, ma’am. Anyway, he's not the most cheerful guy in the world but today was just so much worse. He barely spoke. At one point I was, like, telegraphing a move as a teachable moment or whatever and he flinched.” Zack sounds gutted. “He flinched, mom.”

“Aw, honey.” Darina tuts, dropping into a rocking chair. 

“I let him go after that. Do you think I should just go bald?” 

She doesn’t want to mock him, but he asks the question with such suddenness, such earnestness, that she finds herself giggling into her hand, even though sympathetic tears are springing to her eyes. “I think you should consider talking to him about it first, baby.” 

“I’m not good at that. Me Zack. Me hit things with swords and big magic. Ooh, uugh.” 

They share another laugh. Darina curls her fingers around the hem of her apron and dabs at her eyes. “You’re better with words than you think, honey. Talk to him, okay? Let me know how it goes when you do. No ifs, no buts,” She adds quickly, anticipating another protest.

“Yeah, I get you.” 

“Tell me something good.” 

So he tells her about the kittens he snuck up from under the plate, wrangled out of the loving grip of the cutest, scariest florist he’s ever met. He’s named them after a host of prolific philosophers, mostly because it makes him laugh that the names don’t fit. Angeal finally took the break everyone has been begging him to take. Genesis is as infuriatingly difficult to read as ever, but in noticeably high spirits, even coming off routine assignments in Wutai. The General smiled the other day. Most of all, Zack is still delighted over seeing a rare black chocobo on his last mission. 

He’s far too young to be in his position, Darina realizes. A good kid, with a decent head on his shoulders, but too young. Who’s primed to take part in running an army at eighteen? He could be anything else and he’d live longer. He could still be doing a huge amount of the good he’s doing without mako, without a sword, without responsibility he’s probably not prepared for. ShinRa stole five years of his youth and she’s terrified it will cut the rest short. Darina hates arguing with her boy, so instead of voicing any of this, she tells him that she loves him and to be careful.

“Careful’s my middle name, mommy dearest,” he tells her.

\--

“He said the haircut just reminded him of something really bad that happened to him a long time ago. I don’t buy it.”

“Sounds like a sign he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“I guess so…” 

“Did he apologize? He does know you’d never hurt him, right?” 

“Chill, mom. He did, and he knows. He’s… been through a lot. I just wish he would _ tell _ me about it.” 

“I understand you want to help him, baby, I do. But sometimes you just can’t pick at old wounds like that without just making them worse. It sounds like he trusts you. Just give him time.” 

Zack sends her a photo later. The haircut absolutely does not look bad on him, but it does emphasize that he’s getting older. Some of the softness of his face is gone, is morning into the handsome angles of his father’s people, and it’s easier to see now. Feeling that familiar fluttering of nervousness in her stomach, Darina saves the photo.

\--

The neighbor’s kid is croaking at her door again. 

Across the dinner table, Manuel gives her a tired look over his tea. “You’ve got to stop encouraging her.” 

“Oh, hush, she’s ten,” Darina says, standing. She dips into the kitchen, pulling the familiar potion from the fridge. She’s pretty sure the bottle's iconic design, a young woman’s profile with the cap serving as an ornament in her hair, is half the reason it’s so expensive. This is her second to last one. 

Manuel has let Leila in when she returns. They know it’s her because when the Touch Mes turn her into a frog she has a spot in the middle of her back, an ugly misshapen brown mark. Darina is afraid to ask what it looks like on her ordinary body. 

“I have half a mind to let you stay that way a bit longer, little miss.” Darina says, with absolutely no heat. 

A miserable croak is her only reply.

Manuel makes a dubious little noise into his tea as Darina upends the potion on her head. 

The first thing Leila says is, “I tried to eat some flies, it wasn’t fun.”

Darina shares a look with Manuel over her shoulder. He’s smiling. Zack said something similar what feels like a lifetime ago. She beckons Leila closer, her chest throbbing familiarly as the girl pushes her head into the palm placed onto her forehead. 

“Then maybe you should consider not putting yourself in the direct line of magic frogs who want more silly children to play with,” Manuel tells her. She sticks her tongue out at him, and he barks a laugh. 

“Your adventures are getting a little expensive.” Darina informs her. 

Giving in to the urge, she curls her hands over the girl’s little shoulders to pull her in for a hug. Hugs from children are the best in that they are comedic in an earnest way. They simply grab whatever is in reach, be it your waist or your knees or your legs, and squeeze as tightly as possible, like little barnacles. Zack’s had been especially obnoxious because most of the time he’d been covered in sweat and grime but would not release her until he’d gotten the optimal amount of motherly affection. Leila is filthy. Darina adores her. 

“Sorry, Mrs. Fair,” the girl says, not a trace of remorse in her voice.

They send her off with some snacks and an order to rest—having your entire biology magically altered, while a rite of passage in Gongaga, is very tiring business. 

“It’s like someone cloned Zack.” Manuel snorts, when she takes her seat again. 

“Isn’t it just? I’m glad they probably won’t ever meet.” 

“Please. You’d raise Zack all over again if somebody’d let you.” 

“And you wouldn’t?” 

“We’re not talking about me.” 

Darina giggles. He reaches across the table for her hand, and she eagerly takes the wordless offer. She’s always loved her husband’s hands. Large, weathered with work and now age, sandpaper warm around her own. His hair is graying, but she can see so much of their son in his roguish good looks. 

“You doin’ okay?” He asks, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. 

“Oh, sure. Are you?” 

“I’ve got an ache in my back and my knees,” He complains. 

“That’s because you’re old.” 

“Hey, I’m _ distinguished _,” he corrects. 

She brings her hand up to her mouth and drops a kiss onto his skin. It’s dry from his work, but she loves this skin. “Do you think we did the wrong thing, not dragging Zack back here?”

“Everyday,” he tells her, without hesitation. “But what is there for him here? Listen, D. He’s a good kid. And he’s not gonna disappear on us, you know him better than that. He could be facing down an entire army and he’d still find a way to get through them so he could show up here and annoy the heck outta you.” 

“I know! I know. I just worry.” 

“Zack’s too dumb to die,” Manuel says. 

Darina pinches the skin between his thumb and pointer-finger, biting her lip on a laugh at his yelp. “Don’t talk about my baby that way.” Even through her mixed amusement, a wave of restless worry is spreading hotly over her skin at the thought of her son having a brush with death. Manuel has never been very tactful.

“Yeah, whatever, I’m right. And if he ever was in danger he’d find some way to laugh his way through the whole thing and be right as rain at the end of it. Besides, the kid thinks you hung the moon, way he calls you. You’ll be the first to hear if he’s having a rough go of it. Okay?”

“Okay.” 

“C’mere.” 

She scoots her chair around the table and gives him a kiss, then drops her head onto his shoulder. They sit like that for a while, taking each other in, thoughts turned east. 

\-- 

“Zack?” Darina asks, after a lull has occurred in a slow but soothing conversation on the daily goings on of Midgar life. 

“Yeah?” 

“Do you ever regret joining SOLDIER? ShinRa at the very least.” 

She’s asked a similar question with regularity, and it usually amounts to an argument or a fussy dismissal, but this time he hums and says, “Yeah. What a hypocrite, right?” 

“No, that’s not what I meant…” 

“I know, ma.” 

“Walk me through this, okay? You seemed so sure up until now.” 

He sighs. Tells her about his time under the plate, and the colorful group of friends Cloud has integrated him into. The flower girl who kisses his cheek and calls him names, cheerfully unimpressed with his work as a SOLDIER. Cloud’s childhood friend, a mix of shy and motherly and downright unyielding when it comes to the people she loves. The gruff father and his young daughter, making a shaky living. The silent observer who is only seen when he wants to be. The people who no longer shrink away at his approach but recognize him as a friend of a friend and speak to him freely—his guilt at not noticing the fear sooner, or how justified it was. 

ShinRa lurks in corners and shadows and in high places, its industrial jackboot grinding hopes into the dirt. He can’t stop thinking about his last assignment to Wutai, now a year passed, and how he’d been briefly terrified but ultimately accepting of the fact that he would have had to cut down a gutsy little girl who couldn’t have been much older than ten if she’d pushed her luck any further. The quiet and gradual demoralization of his mentors, three of the strongest men in the entire world.

“Zack, all you’ve ever wanted is to do good.” She says, worried at the dejected tone of his voice. 

“That’s the thing, mom. What if I just confused most powerful with most good? Does that even make sense? What if I should just leave?” 

“Now you listen to me, Zackary Fair.” Darina begins, frustrated on his behalf. He makes a little noise, and she hushes him. “I will not allow you to blame yourself for learning the same lesson everyone else has been taught. Your father and I—we tried to do right by you. I think we did. You’re amazing. We might have made a mistake in not bringing you back, but you’ve gone so much further than anyone ever said people like us would be ‘allowed’ to. I don’t doubt that you want to do right by other people, and I don’t doubt that you’ve tried. It’s okay to question things. I’m sorry I don’t know enough to be much help. If you want to take a break, you should. If you think things need to change, you need to think about how you’re gonna make it happen. I will not, however, allow you to give up.”

She takes a deep, frantic breath. He’s quiet on the other line. 

“Do you understand me?” She demands. 

“I do! I love you, mom.” 

“I love you too! So much. I don’t think I’ve told you this enough, either: I’m so proud of you. Worried out of my mind, but proud.”

“Proud you raised SOLDIER’s premiere, devilishly handsome operative?” 

“I’m begging you to be more modest!” She huffs, much to his amusement. Then, quieter, she says, “I’m sorry if I upset you.” 

“You didn’t upset me. This was already on my mind. I think it’d be pretty stupid of me to say ‘don’t worry’ so I guess just, uh. Use all that worry for something productive?” 

“Right back at you, kid.” She says.

\--

The next phone call comes at a ridiculous hour in the morning. 

“Zack, you know about the time difference.” 

“Sorry, ma,” he says, sounding breathless. “Hey, do you remember those spiky little dudes with the long schnozes? I used to mess with them a bunch growing up? I love them.” 

“The spiky little dudes with the long schnozes,” Darina parrots, deadpan. 

“I tried to bring one home one day and scared you half to death?” 

She’s groggy from sleep and the vestiges of some vague dream, but this is a memory that comes to her easily enough. Zack, using his shirt as a shield between him and the quills of a writhing, whining creature, covered in dirt and red welts like some thieving gremlin. 

“An echidna?” 

“Yes!” He shrieks. She pulls her phone away from her ear.

Darina can hear someone else muttering about how Zack needs to regulate his volume.

“Echidnas. I love those guys. I thought they were cool ‘cuz they looked like me. Echidna… that’s what I’ll be.” 

“You’ll be what, honey?” She asks, entirely lost. 

“Don’t worry about it, mom. Thanks, love you, get some sleep.” She can hear him pressing several smacking kisses onto his phone, before the line goes silent. 

She puts her phone away, and rolls closer to her slumbering husband, who she suspects could sleep through an air raid. “Maybe you were right about our son being dumb.”

\--

“Hey, mom?” 

“What’s on your mind today?” 

“Is dad there?” 

“Yes he is,” Darina answers. 

The two of them are playing cards, a low stakes game with the prize being who’s in charge of the more tedious housework for the week. Manuel raises a brow at her. 

“Put me on speaker?” 

She does, and puts the phone down as she glances at her deck. 

“Hey, pop?” 

“What’s up, dummy?” Manuel asks, warmly. 

Zack gasps. “You are mean to me. You insult me and you don’t appreciate anything that I—”

“What’s happening, Zack?” Darina raises her voice, drowning out his theatrics. 

“I think you guys should adopt that kid!” Zack shouts. Then, proudly, like he’s stumbled onto some great scientific discover, “Ta, as they say, da.” 

Manuel guffaws. “You think we aren’t still traumatized from raising your ass?” 

Darina reaches out to pinch him, drawing her lips tight so that she doesn’t laugh. 

“I’m serious! I know you guys are too proud to accept the help I want to give you, but now would be a good excuse to do it! An extra mouth to feed is a lot! And if there’s a little leftover money to spend on literally anything, who cares?”

“Zack, you really don’t have to do that.” Darina says. She glances at her hand, and scowls. “I fold, dear.” 

Manuel crows. One more win for him, and she’s in charge of the chores.

“Mom, dad, I’m rich,” he bellows. “Take my money, nobody needs this much to live!” 

Manuel surprises her by saying, “Okay.” 

“Okay? What? Don’t I get a say?” She cries. 

“You’ve already made up your mind.” Manuel says. 

Zack laughs. “Cool I’ll wire you monthly love you bye!” 

He hangs up. 

\--

Leila’s parents do not protest, especially when Darina mentions her son’s salary and a willingness to share some of it with them. Leila cries. Gives her another one of those sweet child hugs around the knees. For the first time in what must be weeks, that anticipatory knot of dread in her chest begins to unravel. 

**3.**

_ hey genesis you like science right _

The casual tone of the message certainly catches Genesis’ attention, if nothing else. It wouldn’t be the first time an especially dedicated admirer managed to strong-arm their way into his connection. Genesis' fans have always been especially intelligent and poetic people. Sometimes he humors them, giving tidbits of information—sometimes true, sometimes outright lies, so that he can watch from a distance as it circulates online. Angeal had scolded him for it years ago, and he’d promised to stop, but he never really has. 

There are a few things that give him pause: the display name OMEGA, written in ominous capitals, the string of zeros as the display number attached only to spoofed robo-contacts upon a lazy search, its suddenness and the quickness with which the next message arrives, as service in Wutai sees to it that he receives most correspondence much later than senders intended. 

_ i know a few things about science _ _  
_ _ I know a lot of things about the science that made you _ _  
_ _ pretty gnarly stuff _

_ And who is this? _

_ woah woah woah, at least take me to dinner first _ _  
_ _ this is somebody who wants you safe _

If there is one thing that has always frustrated Genesis, it is the assuredness of people who believe they know better. He ignores the message. 

\--

The morale of his garrison take a hit when they get the news that the last incursion they suppressed was civilian lead. The first SOLDIER who runs to him weeping over the bodies of their assailants reminds him of a day almost eight years passed, and he wonders who else is losing their innocence on this battlefield today. He removes oni mask after traditional veil after helmet, sees an elderly man, a girl undoubtedly no older than fifteen, the scarred moue of a practiced warrior. Mothers, he thinks, fathers and aunts and uncles and children—those whose faces are identifiable enough. 

The warriors of Wutai rarely show their faces in battle. It is a tradition, he has learned over time. The exposure of faces is limited to opponents worthy of the honor of eye-contact. ShinRa’s military, who has done nothing but pillage this nation since the moment it sniffed mako, has rarely been afforded fights against bare-faced Wutaian forces. The last time Genesis witnessed a battle against a Wutaian warrior that had willingly exposed their face, he’d been seventeen, he and Angeal watching as Sephiroth faced against the general who would award him with the summon materia for his beloved nodachi. Genesis had locked the memory of her name away, his subconscious burying the trauma associated with a truly grueling round of days, but he’ll never forget the weathered look of her, the horror in her eyes at the realization that she was expected to face off against a child whose face was still round with baby fat. The Demon of Wutai’s reputation preceded him, and most rarely lived to tell the tale of his looks.

Sephiroth had dipped into a practiced _ saikeirei _ before their battle, which she mirrored, and when the battle ended, he’d fallen into a _ dogeza _, light hair lank with sweat and blood. She’d patted him on the head, whispered something to him that not even Angeal has been able to extract from him, and returned the courtesy. They’d stayed that way for a time—when Sephiroth heard some of their forces restlessly approaching, he’d held up a gloved hand in reproach. That victory had been the turning point in the first wave of the war, and also what he privately regards as the complete and utter loss of innocence for the three of them. She died of her injuries a week later, and Sephiroth had been promoted to Brigadier General not soon afterwards.

And in this moment, Genesis hates Sephiroth. Hates him to the very marrow of his bones, for not being able to choose the circumstances of his birth and exceeding them anyway, for being so demonstrably unhappy with his life yet not questioning it so they can follow, for becoming the perfect killing machine, for dragging he and Angeal into it because they loved him anyway, for eventually having the power to refuse returning to Wutai while Genesis dies here in every way that counts. 

\--

Over the next few days, weeks, months, Genesis hears from Omega on little things. The Science Department’s research, chiefly, in brief and horrific snapshots. Each assertion seems at first too cartoonishly villainous to be believable, but they’re verified by some tidbit of knowledge only Genesis would know, which is infuriating and scarier than it should be, given the circumstances. Angeal stealing apples from his parents’ farm and distributing them among every family who could barely afford a meal a day. His foster mother admitting she wished she hadn’t been saddled with him, then crumpling with regretful shock a moment later, and how much easier things had been at home after that. Sephiroth escaping a meeting with Hojo after the war, bruised and bloody and angry as a cornered animal, the venom that poured from his mouth as he clipped his hair in choppy layers like a madman and hadn’t calmed until his nanny came to reclaim him—the bitter turn their friendship took after that, even though Genesis had been aware he was not fully himself. (_ I will find you _ , he sends on the heel of this last one, and Omega responds with _ lol nananana boo boo 🤪 _)

The most damning piece of information he gets is that Angeal’s transfusion will not work for long. _ but i know somebody who can fix that _

_ Who?_

_ i dnt trust you, cowboy! favor for a favor _

_ And what have you done to make me trust you? _

_ few things you don’t know about but _

_ want me to kill hollander?_

\--

The day they hear of Hollander dying, the three of them go for a drink.

It’s difficult for them all to drink together, what with ShinRa having them scattered to the winds, but they settle into a video call and then toast. Genesis’ mild sake is not nearly enough to get even the newest SOLDIER Third Class tipsy, but he savors the flavor like it’s the strongest absinthe regardless. 

“May the Goddess take Hojo next,” Genesis says. 

Sephiroth takes a long drink. 

Angeal sighs, “Genesis, please.” 

“Oh, like you’re sad. Do you have any parting words to say, Angeal?” 

Angeal’s frown, and his silence, is hilariously damning. Surprisingly, Sephiroth chokes a little laugh into the lip of his bottle. It’s a rare and infectious sound and before long they’re chuckling like loons over the line, celebrating the passing of one of their lives’ biggest antagonists. 

“Sephiroth,” Angeal says, the familiarly scolding tone of his voice weakened by his weak laughter. 

“Will he be missed?” Genesis demands. 

“No,” Sephiroth replies. 

Angeal hides his face. “No.”

Genesis can’t help a grin. 

They talk about meaningless things. Sephiroth, as usual, nearly sends Genesis into a rage by being thoughtless, and Angeal breaks them up with a gently but cuttingly accurate assessment of both of their blame in the conversation going south. Cowed like disobedient hounds, they trade grit-teeth apologies, and before long are talking again about the works. Rinse, repeat, soothingly familiar. 

Later, he responds to the message that has been sitting in his personal phone for a while.

He says, _ So you kept your word. Interesting. _

The response is immediate: _ :) _ Then, on the heels of this one is _ now do u believe me? _

\--

_ Some context for your involvement would be nice. _

The answer he gets is not what he’s expecting: _ that’ll take a little while. but now u know im not just saying whatever. keep doing what you have been and you’ll hear from me later _

_ You said a favor for a favor. What can I do for you? _

\--

The favor is scarily simple, and similar to stealth assignments at the height of the war with Wutai. The only difference is that he is to break into the General’s floor when he returns from his latest assignment. 

Sephiroth is not a man of stealth. He can be silent, of course, but his function is that of a one-man calvary, a casual force of brute strength. When Sephiroth is sent on a job, the goal is to get it done swiftly and mercilessly. 

Genesis has had his suspicions about this Omega for a while now, but the recommendation of a host of spells (Bio at third level and a simple Confuse on the sweet Mrs. Barbie, Silence and Haste on himself for ease of mobility, and an Escape should he draw the ire of the General, who is protective of those under his employ), the precise date and how a glance at the schedule confirms only Sephiroth and his assistant will be on call, answers so many questions. A ShinRa employee, almost certainly. Perhaps a SOLDIER, but this subterfuge smacks of Turk machination. 

The goal, interestingly enough, is to draw attention. He’s mad with curiosity over its real function. Draw attention. Is there nothing else Omega wants? With the office so clear, there is a wealth of documents to be found, surely. Nothing, though. Nothing at all. 

He’s glad to be back in Midgar, despite its ugliness. Angeal is there to greet him when he returns, and Genesis rolls his eyes as his friend pulls him into a gruff, one-armed hold, releasing him just as quickly. 

“How are you?” 

“Very unhonorable.” He replies, smiling at Angeal’s arch look. 

“If you need to talk about it…” 

“I know, Angeal. I know.”

\--

After Sephiroth’s office, the favors that follow are confusing little things. This box is too heavy for the unenhanced to carry and their other contact is on another continent, can he move it? (He looks inside and it’s filled to the brim with neatly arranged glass bottles, with the familiar smell of powerful magic lingering atop them, which explains the lack of sound when he hoists it up.) Could he bully the Turks trainees in Sector 8 today? Can he keep Lieutenant-General Fair distracted for a good hour? The next time he speaks to President ShinRa, can he assess the man for visible injury? 

He hasn’t been this absorbed in something since he first discovered Loveless. There’s a thrill in this quiet rebellion against the company that owns him. Midgar has never felt more alive.

\--

The world rings in the new year before Omega mentions helping him again. 

_ my friend’s ready to meet you and help you out _ _  
_ _ share some with mr. hewley _ _  
_ _ im not even gonna bother trying to reach out to mr. hewley bc well. you know how he is. _ _  
_ _ but he’ll listen to you probs _

_ Why are you doing this? _ Genesis asks. 

_ ppl are starting to hate it when i say this but why not?  
_ _anyways you’ve been a big help but don’t fucking hurt my friend. you’ll be watched  
_ _meet her at the loveless showing in sect. 8 two days from now_

_ How will I know it’s her? _

_ you’ll know lol _

_ \-- _

He does know, because while being approached by strangers is not new for him, it _is _new to have that stranger stare up at him, nod, and then loop an arm through his as if they are on a date. 

“Hi,” the girl says, hushedly, and then she giggles at herself like she has some secret. “I thought you’d be taller.” 

She’s pretty, brown hair braided neatly onto her head, green eyes wide. The floral design of her pale white dress swishes against her ankles as they walk, and as she cranes her neck over her shoulder and gives a finger wave, her dangly blue earrings tinkle musically. Genesis follows her gaze, but no one is in his line of sight. 

“And I thought you would be a lot less lovely.” He purrs. 

This earns him a laugh, a proper one. “Wow, he wasn’t kidding.”

“He? Omega?” 

“Yep! Come on, I know you like to sit in the back but I scored us some balcony tickets.” She says, adjusting her purse. 

People are gawking at them. Genesis recognizes some of his more dedicated fans, and is grateful that their astonishment has not pushed them to take photos. The people who work at the theatre are used to Genesis’ patronage by now, and he receives several warm smiles and greetings as they make their way inside and through the box office. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this, looks without expectations, familiar venues, familiar smells and sights and sounds. As they sit down, his companion for the night gets comfortable in her plush chair, pulling off her boots with a sigh and bringing her knees up to her chest. She pulls their shared table closer, and plops her huge purse onto it. 

“First of all, he wanted me to give you…” she trails off, rummaging around. With a victorious little sound, she produces a leather-bound book. “...this! It’s his copy of Loveless! He’s annotated it.”

He accepts this little gift, fascinated by its aged brown leather. Thumbing through the pages, he can see the progression of a little flipbook drawing in the upper right corner. It’s a meteor crashing into a planet, briefly stalled by first a barrier and then destroyed completely by the emergence of waving tendrils. It ends on the last page in a little shower of sparkles. Another look through displays notes written in a lovely cursive, wry little comments on this character’s actions, surprisingly thoughtful and unique interpretations of others. 

“As for the other thing…” the girl trails off. “Well, it’s a. Shot. I guess.” 

She presents a syringe to him. It’s not very large, but the small amount of fluid inside it is white hot.

Genesis barks a laugh. “I have half a mind to leave right now.” 

And the thing is that he doesn’t want to. Something inside him craves whatever is inside, even though he’s sure that staring at it for long is making his eyes water. Sometimes, when SOLDIERs are taken in for mako treatment, they report on hearing strange whispers, some song singing knowledge that is so deeply world-rocking that it fills them with an accepting despair. Genesis knows it well. When each treatment ends, it fades as swiftly as a waking hallucination, leaving only the vague imprint of heartbreak in its wake. He feels that longing, now, words rumbling just underneath the surface, understood only by something primal in his heart. 

“If you try to do anything, or leave without it, you’ll be in danger.” She says, apologetically. She looks truly regretful over telling him something absolutely ridiculous.

“What is it?” 

“Everyone who’s ever been under the Calamity’s influence will want to reunite with her. That’s how she works. If your body doesn’t get part of her in the right way, you’ll always be vulnerable. And if you stop getting more, than you lose that connection and it tears you apart. But you don’t need that connection, Genesis. Someone else wants you, and she wants you very badly.” The girl explains. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more. I don’t understand all of it myself. But I’ve been told it’ll all make sense soon.” 

“You people invade my privacy, you make me relive the worst parts of my life, you involve me in your little games, and now you think you you can just,” he gestures at the syringe, “do this? And have me believe you? Do this for you?” 

“You’ve already helped us so far. Omega said a favor for a favor.”

“Bold words from someone who’s just admitted she doesn’t know everything. What’s your name, anyway?” 

She smiles. “Our friends call me Butterfly. You can call me Aerith.” 

“I don’t trust you, Aerith.” 

“I wouldn’t expect you to. I wouldn’t. I don’t really know what else I can tell you. I can give you my word that I know this will work because I made this.” She tells him, gesturing at the syringe. 

Then, she bites her lip, visibly lost in thought. “How about this. I’ll give this to you, and the other one for Mr. Hewley. You can have a week to think about it. If you really don’t want to use it, come back here for the next showing and give them back to me, and I’ll tell Omega to leave you alone.” 

“Just like that?” 

She nods. “Just like that.” 

He scoffs at her. She smiles. Below them, the curtains are drawn and the show begins. She sits with him for the whole viewing, Her chin resting on her knees, fingers curled around her toes. How strange for someone so gentle looking to be involved in something like this. Espionage and terrorism and dubious science. When the show is over, she gives him one last look, and leaves. 

\--

Genesis keeps the syringes secure in his apartment, and observes them for nights on end. Each time, that same song rises within his chest, makes the mako and whatever corrupted cells are in his blood buzz uncomfortably. Had he not just been sure of his own death? If whatever is waiting for him on the other side of this is death or punishment and then death regardless, what is there to lose in potentially bringing things to an early end regardless? And has Omega not been eerily reliable, these past few months? 

Cowboy, the stranger calls him. Cowboy do this, cowboy move that. Totally and entirely unimpressed with his history, and not at all hesitant to check him with derisive efficiency. 

\--

He calls his father. 

“Genesis,” the man says, sounding tired but pleasantly surprised to hear from him nonetheless, “how are you, son? 

“Tired. We think Wutai might be coming to a close soon.”

His father hums. Genesis knows that sound. Doubt, expressed as politely as possible, a high-society superpower. He grins. 

“Are you coming to visit us while you’re free? Your mother would love to see you.” It’s not a question, but it’s stated like one, the hesitant tilt of a voice. 

“I’ll think about it.” No.

“Okay. Are you happy, son?” 

Such an annoying question. Well meaning, especially coming from a person who will not know how to react if the answer is negative, but annoying nonetheless. Genesis remembers his happiest moments so vividly because they do not come often. So he draws on one of those, feeling less guilty about the lie when he says, “Yes.” 

“That’s good. How is Angeal?” 

The stilted rhythm of the conversation is soothing in its ordinariness—the awkward correspondence between parent and child long estranged, fueled by love and loneliness. He always dreads calling right up until he does it, but rarely regrets it when he hangs up.

\--

_bet ur hair’s falling out lol _ Omega texts him. _ bet ur knees hurt _

It is, and they do. Genesis ignores the message.

\--

On the sixth day, he takes one of the syringes and plunges it into his thigh. 

It is incredibly difficult for ordinary needles to pierce the skin of higher class SOLDIERs—they require specially made ones. This one parts his skin as a warm knife does butter. He pushes the piston, and a wave of warmth flows through him. The feeling of eyes on you is unique, and he feels it everywhere, exposed and tender. Aches he’d grown accustomed to dissipate. As he stands, the usual bout of swirling dizziness is absent. 

“Gaia beneath me,” He breathes out, dropping right onto the floor, some odd compulsion insisting the shock will pass easier if he’s closer to the ground.

He texts Omega. _ What are you people? _

Omega says _ white blood cells lol_

\--

Omega’s notes on LOVELESS are interesting. Genesis can feel the disdain radiating off of the page with each cutting remark, but the tale is treated with respect. Publisher’s footnotes on popular interpretations of some landmark events are either debunked with finality or corroborated begrudgingly. _ Gaia has many faces, all of them annoying_, is written next to one of Genesis’ favorite lines (My friend, your desire/Is the bringer of life, the gift of the Goddess).

On the last page, a publisher’s note proclaiming the mystery of the missing texts is underlined with a huge frowny face next to it, and a handful of lines are written beneath the final stanza: 

_ To become the dew that quenches the land _ _  
_ _ To spare the sands, the seas, the skies _ _  
_ _ I offer thee this silent sacrifice _

\--

He has tried to call the number before. He rarely gets an answer. He is in the office with Angeal when his phone lights up with a call. 

“Genesis?” Angeal asks. “Who’s Omega?”

Genesis hisses, “No one, a friend, give it here,” and lunges over the table for his phone. Angeal gives him a puzzled look and slides his phone over, filling him with regret twofold. He’s likely to have let it passed without such an extreme response, and Genesis always feels a bit like he kicked a dog when he is unkind to Angeal. 

“Hello? Why are you calling me?” He demands, as he leaves in a rush. 

SOLDIER’s three Generals share a floor, and Genesis feels a bit like a criminal as he passes familiar faces—Sephiroth’s assistant, who gives him a smile, Sephiroth himself paused by her desk who gives him a nod, cat eyes always watching, the beehive of support specialists who part for him serenely, by now used to making way for irritated super soldiers. 

He hisses a request for silence and does not speak until he has taken several irritatingly long elevator rides, given up halfway through and marched down the stairs instead, and then made his way to the edge of the plate. If he tilts his head, he can see the bits of the undercity below, the pulse of life. He wonders if this strange person is somewhere under his feet, or lurking at his back, just out of reach.

He’s expecting an ominous voice modulation, or something, not the scratchy voice of a young man. “What’s your favorite animal?” 

“What?” 

“And have you helped Mr. Hewley?” 

Praying for patience, he glances up at the sky. “The bobcat. And I’m working on it.” 

“Cool, that’ll be your name for our operation. If you still want in, that is. You don’t need to keep it up if you don’t want too. As for Mr. Hewley, his situation is a little less dire than yours, as you know. Doesn’t mean it’s not still important.” 

“Don’t presume to speak to me as if you care about his health more than I do.” 

And the boy_ laughs_. If Genesis ever meets him in person, he is going to wring his neck, debts be damned. 

“I don’t! Just thought you might wanna get on that. So. Still in?” 

He grits his teeth. “Still in.” 

“Awesome! Butterfly will be your contact. She likes you, so don’t frustrate her. You’ll see her every now and then. Buy her food. Bye, bobcat!”

The line goes dead. 

\--

Aerith seems delighted to have him.

“Are you feeling better? Did it work?” She asks, as they reunite. Again, she holds onto his arm as if she belongs there, waving over her shoulder at nobody in particular. 

“You gave me that without knowing if it would work?” Genesis injects an unnecessary amount of outrage into his voice, taking a little pleasure in the wide-eyed look she gives him. 

“Well, I figured. I just…” 

“I’m joking. Thank you.” He tells her, surprised by just how much he means it. 

She perks up immediately, and squeezes his arm briefly in reply. She seems distracted, as they make their way under the plate. Genesis has long since learned to cover himself well when he wants to travel unmolested, so he is wearing simple track pants and a hoodie, sunglasses, and a hideous beanie. They make the odd pair walking under the plate, he in all black, her in pink literally from head to toe. 

“We’re going to the road in Sector 6 today. We got permission from everyone else to go ahead and get it ready for something big. But part of the plan is sabotage. That’s where you come in!” 

She reaches into her purse, and pulls it to her front so that he can see. It tinkles softly, and the artificial daylight under the plate catches on several glowing materia. 

“What for?” 

“Did you ever watch those cartoons as a kid where one character would try their best to outsmart and annoy the other character, and that's the joke? We’re doing that, but dangerously.” She says, way too delighted with this idea.

They start at the rear end of the road and work their way back, so they can have an exit. They burn the shoddily constructed wooden stairs, and douse the fires immediately. They blast anything metal—from the exposed foundations under the road to the ladders that can be used to reach the top of the road—with cold, and test the brittleness. They melt pipes closed. 

Aerith pauses to kneel over where the earth below has been exposed in the crack blacktop, hands clasped together. He has no idea what she is doing, as there is no visible effect, but she warns him away from each area, waving her arms in a playfully wide berth. She’s a small thing, slender and young, but she uses materia with an ease rarely seen by an ordinary person. He doubts very much that she is an ordinary person. There’s something about her that seems like it’s knocking at him, waiting for exposure, yet still frustratingly out of reach.

“You’re really good at magic,” Genesis points out, hoping that she’ll elaborate. 

“Family gift.” She answers, shortly but not meanly.

At first glance, it’s difficult to survey the damage they’ve left. The road was already in awful disrepair, still serving its purpose as a means of travel, but dangerously so. Now, it has no value at all. Genesis wonders whose permission is “everyone’s,” and why they are all content to take the long way ‘round should they need to travel through Sections. 

“You aren’t worried about being caught, at all?” Genesis asks Aerith, as they depart. 

“Not. At. All,” She sing-songs.

She thanks him for his help. He buys her food.

\--

In the end, the only way he is able to pass the gift along to Angeal is to become intoxicated.

It takes effort to get a SOLDIER drunk, and once the whole thing sets in, it’s a brief but intense dance with the fates. Who can fight overpowered men singing show tunes?

He calls Angeal over for a drink, tosses back 100 proof after 100 proof until the world is swimming, and as Angeal pulls him laughingly to his bedroom, he makes like swiping at his neck and sticks the needle in instead. The fear of doing it sobers him almost instantly. Clarity, a cruel mistress.

But Angeal is groaning and cajoling and pulling, winces at this assault but it isn’t the first (or likely the last) time Genesis has attacked him with no provocation. He pockets the syringe. Angeal throws him onto his plush bed with one final, “There we go.”

“Angeal? How do you feel?” He mumbles, covering his face.

Angeal is pulling his shoes and socks off at the foot of the bed. Same old song and dance. 

“I’m feeling okay, Genesis. Really, I am. You?” Angeal asks, patting his ankles.

“Never better.” Genesis says, closing his eyes.  
  
  


**4.**

They draft their surrender after one civilian too many is killed for the conflict. Godo spends days attempting to be granted entry into Yuffie’s rooms, but she refuses him. He can hear her crying sometimes, often falls asleep outside her door waiting for her to quiet. Each morning he wakes up with a plate of cookies in his lap, but he sees very little of his daughter. She needs Kasumi, but Godo is almost grateful that she passed before she could see the way their country has lost itself. 

He refuses to speak Common during the official ceremony for the surrender. It grates on the ShinRa operatives present, but they are being televised—he may face consequences later, but he will _ not _ use the language of Wutai’s aggressors to tell them that they were right. They scramble to bring forth a translator, who winces at some of his more caustic remarks and softens them for the public. 

Godo signs document after document, the same rhythmic strokes of kanji after kanji that make up his full name and title until his wrist aches, and shakes hands with the General sent to end this war. He looks sickly and drawn. Godo has seen this young man before—he and the Demon had drawn attention in the early days, for their odd looks and terrifying strength. He is glad that even someone as unnatural as this has left this war with some damage. 

\--

They pull their troops out of Wutai gradually. Good riddance, the people say, even though they know that what will follow will be the real war, in the form of smiling faces hoping to cannibalize Wutai’s culture and spirit. The harsh metal of Midgar will follow, pierce the very ground beneath them, and drain the life from it in much the same way. 

When the last regiment leaves, Yuffie leaves her rooms. She crawls onto his lap, uncaring that he is in full regalia on his throne. He holds her tightly, taking in her warmth and the smell of her hair and the thump of her heartbeat. 

“You are the best of us,” he tells her, “the very best.” 

\--

Their lookouts tell of an approaching airship, and Godo spends the rest of the week preparing what is left of his army for another wave of ShinRa attack. There is no telling what they will do, now that they feel that they won’t be facing resistance

Curiously, this airship bears no heralding of any major power, is sleek and small and even decorated with a tasteless pinup on its side, and obligingly follows the instruction of people waving them towards neutral ground. He will not have them brought into the imperial grounds, and eventually they land atop Dai-Chao. His advisors protest it bitterly, but Godo takes his entourage up the mountain to meet them.  
  
When they arrive, he’s shocked at the little group before them. They don’t seem to fit together. There is a stocky man in a bandana with a pungent cigarette hanging from his lips, a short woman holding a veritable stack of folders in her arms, a tall man who dips into a shallow but respectful bow of greeting—Godo can see in the shape of his eyes and face that he has at least one parent born of Wutai—and a blonde boy in a leather jacket and combo boots.

“Hello.” He says, for lack of anything else to say. 

“Hello,” the man who bowed said, and then, in Wutaian, “_ we’d like to ask a favor of you. _” 

**\--**

“_ Absolutely not _ ,” he says, to the request of diplomatic immunity for the men almost entirely responsible for destroying his country. “ _ That is too much to ask. My people have suffered too much, and for too long. _”

“We’re not saying they should go unpunished,” The boy says, surprising Godo into silence, “in fact, I think Sephiroth, Genesis, and Angeal owe you almost as much as the president himself. What we are saying is that you need to consider the power of coercion and unethical scientific practices. Haven’t you ever wondered about the circumstances of Sephiroth’s… entire being?”

Vincent’s companions have spoken very little during their stilted negotiation. When prompted to hand them over, Shera handed over her folders. She and the man they called the Captain explained the function of each device listed within with the ease of familiarity, no condescension or lies. Devices meant to sustain them much longer and more safely than any mako reactor. The boy has not spoken at all, had even laid his head on Vincent’s shoulder and taken his phone out to mess around with as they spoke. Now he is looking up at Godo with intensity.

“_ I have. What do you know of it? _” 

“_ I know everything. _” 

“_And what is keeping me from reporting the lot of you and earning a lighter punishment for my country?_” 

The boy smiles. “_ I’ll let the papers talk. _”

\--

The Demon of Wutai had been fourteen years old when he first came to Wutai. He’d been Colonel Sephiroth, then, still using a regulation SOLDIER sword before the one he’d won from General Tomoe Gozen. 

They knew that he was not made naturally. There was no way anyone could not know. The story ShinRa had constructed of his family history is paper thin, but no one questions it for fear of retribution. Godo spends days on end reading about him, about Rhapsodos, about Hewley. From birth, chosen to be weapons, given no options besides. He gags when he reads about the more intense tests, about sensory deprivation and starvation and clinical removal of teeth and hours spent exposed to the elements in a controlled environment to track survivability. The way each observation of an unfavorable report ends with, in so many words, another child can be made if the current subject proves insufficient.

Godo imagines his own daughter in their place, denied contact and praise and sometimes food for not pushing herself beyond the limits of humanity. The world has proven, in the last forty years or so, that it will suffer much. This is a limit. 

Godo has no doubt that when these reports are circulated—and they _ will _ be circulated—there will trouble. There will be blood in the streets. There might even be revolution. 

\--

Yuffie excitedly tells him that Cloud—and this is the only way Godo learns the boy’s name, because it has not been offered once—has gifted her with a box set of materia. Godo is instantly curious, but he will allow her this little private treasure, and hope that she does not cause too much mischief with it. Though she hoards the damn things, a habit she picked up from him, she has had little progress with using them. 

He thanks Cloud for it later, and the boy waves him off, saying, “She’ll get a lot better at it in a few years’ time.” 

\--

They are left with copies of the plans for energy, and though the reports on ShinRa’s experiments were translated specifically for his perusal, those are taken as well.

Their role in this is simple. When the time comes, Godo will share his records of ShinRa’s injustices. They must be kept tightly hidden, but palace scribes have been working on them since the war began. They will translate. The message will be carried across the seas with its full integrity. When ShinRa falls, Wutai will have reparations. There need not be any evidence of their involvement if the plan fails (“It won’t fail,” Cloud had said, gritting his teeth, “not this time. I won’t let it.”). A gamble, if any. Godo has made many of those over the years. His advisors are _ just _ haggard and angry enough to allow this next one.

  
  


**5.**

On the day Jenova goes missing, Hojo is seeing to a First Class.

The man is restrained, but mid procedure, he lurches. His entrapments, heavy grade, magically reinforced metal, break with an awful groan, and the burning scent of a dispel magic fills the room. He reaches for a scalpel, lightning fast, and brings it across Hojo’s face. Blinding pain throbs in his left eye, and with a flurry of shouts and strong-arming from the SOLDIERs on duty, the man is restrained. They needn’t have done anything, for he falls into a deep and restless sleep.

The hit his depth perception takes is trying, but it won’t last for long. He will have Scarlett construct a new eye for him. 

**\--**

Oversight of mako treatments for SOLDIERS is pushed further and further down the chain of command the newer to the program they are, with Hojo himself overseeing the care of the first class. He’d been assisted by Hollander, but as the fool had apparently crossed the wrong person and gotten himself killed, it is just him. However, emergencies are immediately sent his way, as he is regarded as the foremost expert on mako theory in sentient beings. The first time Cloud Strife is carted into Hojo’s care, with his papers declaring him a Nibelheim native, his interest is piqued. A glance at records show that he is extremely receptive to mako infusion, as exemplified by a swift recovery during the SOLDIER exams in Junon. Hojo instantly makes a note suggesting that testing for existing mako levels in cadets become a mandatory process—he will always kick himself for not being able to compare past levels to present ones. 

The boy is obviously under the influence of early onset mako sickness, not terribly uncommon for new SOLDIERs, a little uncommon for someone so receptive, but it is not a strong one. He responds to direction and can move with support, but is otherwise wide-eyed and listless. 

“Entirely unresponsive to verbal communication?” Hojo asks an assistant. 

Before she can answer, the boy thrashes on his bed. Hojo requests that a SOLDIER grunt be sent down to restrain him better. His team, by now, is well trained enough not to attempt to restrain someone mako enhanced without powerful sedatives and assistance. Who returns, however, is irritating enough that Hojo considers banishing him outright—Lieutenant-General Fair, who announces that Strife contacted him before his condition worsened, and that it’ll take an army to move him. It’s not entirely a lie, either, and very few people can sneak up on a First Class to even try and sedate them. 

“Good,” Hojo tells him, “you can hold him down, then.” 

Fair frowns at him, but he complies, looking deeply regretful as he does so. A SOLDIER dose of rohypnol is injected into the boy’s neck, and the fight leaves him. 

“Gods, what was that?” Fair warbles. 

“It will help him sleep. Please don’t speak.” Hojo tells him.

With a little noise of frustration, Fair finds a seat in the chair nestled by Strife’s window. 

“We will need to make sure that he’s not in danger of major organ failure, so we will run him through the works. You will stay here.” 

“Yessir.” Fair says, frown deepening. 

How comedic, to have control over his weapons this way. The strongest men on the planet, and none of them are willing to question him much. 

\--

When the survivors of the Kalm disaster were first brought in for Hojo’s use, several patterns emerged. 

Infusing materia into living beings is a process that the whole of the scientific world view as ill-advised, but the whole of the scientific world is comprised of cowards. If Hojo will give Gast any credit, it is for his willingness to question that which they have been told not to question, and it is a spirit Hojo carried into his work for decades following his death. 

Infusing materia into children is the best way to make sure that results are optimal. The children of Kalm had all died eventually, but those who survived the process had been able to wield some weaker magic with no incantation or physical effects. Some had hurt themselves in the process, others had taxed their bodies to the point of death in the process, but they’d proven a hypothesis. Hojo would repurpose his methods into Sephiroth years later, when the boy returned from war with the materia for his blade—only his mako treatments and his connection to Jenova had saved him, and even he had been out of commission for a time. The later teen years are a likely danger zone. Adults, if they do not mutate outright, will simply die. The integration of whatever materia that now runs through Strife’s veins has been done masterfully.

Cloud Strife’s MRIs show unusual activity in the areas in charge of memory and language comprehension, as did the children of Kalm, and similarly to Sephiroth, who has always been this way. When Hojo tests his reflexes, the boy bares sharp teeth at him. Curious observation reveals nothing, but Hojo knew what he saw. What has this boy experienced? Is this a holdover of Jenova’s presence on the mountain?

A test reveals that his bones are unusually dense. Again, not uncommon for a SOLDIER that has undergone several years’ worth of enhancement, but this is the first time mako has been deliberately introduced into the boy’s system. He is tempted to try and retrieve bone marrow, but the ordering of the specialized needles will take some time, and Fair is doing everything within his rights to obstruct him. 

The rest of the Kalm survivors were in the Nibelheim reactor with Jenova. He curses her loss, curses the hubris that led him to keep so little of her with him, curses the President’s dismissal to have the Turks investigate further. 

\--

Fair, fed up with the entire process, bundles Strife up on an especially rainy day, and spirits him out of the labs. Hojo allows him to leave. He must build a vision of trust to be allowed to observe such a subject again.

\--

He’d been keeping track of it out of curiosity more than anything, but this meeting proves his hypothesis; Sephiroth’s hair is growing in darker and darker. 

Years of culling his most useless behaviors have ensured that Sephiroth asks very few questions about their landmark meetings, but Hojo can feel his rising curiosity when Hojo runs a hand through the hair at his temple, pulling it taut. They review every cubic inch of his body with regularity, but rarely linger unless there is a special occasion.

“Have you been feeling any different lately, my boy? Changes in mood, body temperature?” He asks, making several mental notes. He will test for these things himself regardless, but Sephiroth’s own perception of the process can serve as an important bookmark for any interventions. 

As a child, Sephiroth’s hair was a shocking white color. It thickened and grew into its trademark silver when he hit puberty. Even with Jenova’s powerful influence, at twenty-three years of age he still has room to grow—his brain is not even fully developed. What makes this alarming, however, is what it says about the balance of hormones in his body. If the melanocytes determining his hair color have been further switched on now, what else will follow?

Reunion failed when Sephiroth was sent to Nibelheim. He will visit the reactor to investigate further soon, but this is troubling indeed.

“No, Professor,” Sephiroth says, shortly.

“Your hair is changing color.” Hojo tells him, releasing the strands.

For once he is thankful for the boy’s irritating insistence on growing his hair to ridiculous lengths. He has dedicated years of his life into Project S. His career and his pride are hinging on its success. If, at the end of it all, he has nothing to show for it, his work will be erased, his career will be severely damaged, and his prospects unstable. 

“I hadn’t noticed,” Sephiroth muses, and Hojo can tell that he is being honest, for he cranes his neck towards where he knows the thick glass of his containment room will reflect his image back at him. 

“You wouldn’t. It’s a minute change. Do keep an eye on it and tell me immediately if you feel strangely.” 

“Yes, professor.”

By now used to the rhythm of this, Sephiroth stands, gives Hojo an annoyingly assessing look, and leaves the room for his next round of examination. If he ever saw a photo of his biological mother, he’d be shocked to realize that there was, in fact, someone who looked like him. There is thankfully very little of either of them in him. Sephiroth has Hojo’s jawline, at most, certainly his grandfather’s broad shoulders. Most of what makes him distinguishable from anyone else is the ancient blood running through his veins. Telling him that Jenova was his mother’s name had not been a lie. He is more her child than anyone else’s, despite those who donated the genetic material to create and sustain him. 

\--

Rufus’ little investigation has not been fruitful. 

They do have a breach, this much is clear, and they are all in danger. Hojo has ways of protecting himself, and staff can always be replaced—except for the staff who have been with Sephiroth’s development since his birth. Hojo requests the relocation of this team, which is fulfilled. Sephiroth asks after Nanny just once, and when he receives no answer, is blessedly quiet unless spoken to. Allowing him to maintain those attachments might have been helpful during key moments of his development, but they may prove to be a pain in the future. If the questions persist, he will consider reaching out to Heidegger about their quiet termination. They do not serve any purpose that he himself cannot, even with little or no help.

\--

Another month, another round of mako treatment, and Strife is once again brought to him. Fair, blessedly, is on assignment.

Strife’s condition is markedly improved from the last time, but he is still lethargic. As Hojo sees him into a room for observation, the boy gives him a look down the length of his tilted chin, full of the purest hate he has seen in a while. A lesser person would be intimidated. He is amused. 

“Third. I’ve been eager to see you again.” 

Strife says nothing. 

He cooperates with Hojo’s aides—he even catches the boy whispering to the SOLDIER called in to keep him still if need be. The two of them share a commiserating look. “This is worse than cleaning duty, Elijah,” Strife says, dramatically holding his arms out for restraint. 

He moves too quickly and subsides into his bed with a groan, eyes clenched tight. When he opens them, they are bright with mako.

The best way to offset an extreme case of mako poisoning is time. Sink or swim, mutate and survive or mutate and die, one end or the other. For less intense cases, controlled observation, fluids, and sometimes an oxygen boost, to level the alkalosis that eventually leads to the comas associated with mako’s effects. Today, Strife needs the whole run of it, and his chumminess with the SOLDIER on duty means it would be ill-advised to try anything else. Hojo has been reported many times over the course of his career. It often amounts to a lecture from the President and no real punishment, but the lecture is always irritating and unnecessary. 

He runs the boy through the usual questions. Numbness, nausea? Difficulty breathing? Does he feel as though someone has cast Confuse on him? It is a very distinct sensation, awareness inside a body inputting commands that surely couldn’t have come from the brain inhabiting it, and is the closest comparison to the days leading up to mako addiction. Yes, yes, yes, _ no —_he answers this last question pointedly. 

“You won’t be here for long. It’s likely you’ll be out before dark,” Hojo informs him. 

Such distrusting eyes! 

\--

The President, annoyed with his questioning, agrees to outfit him with a garrison of Regulation Army troopers and one Turk for the trip. Rufus and Heidegger are present. Heidegger, who has been looking paler and paler these days, looks to Rufus. Rufus rolls his eyes. Hojo’s request is met. They will depart before the end of August. 

\--

“Happy birthday, Mr. Strife. Twenty years old?” 

“I’m seventeen.” Strife says, plopping up onto the bed. 

Each time Hojo sees him, he is less gripped by the mako. His eyes are glowing, sure, and he winces at the brush of Hojo’s lab coat as he takes the boy’s wrist to feel for a pulse. As he expected, it is elevated. 

“That explains your recovery. Children are remarkably resilient to these things, you see.” 

The smile Strife gives him is not pleasant. “I’ll bet you know a lot about that.” 

“Yes, my own child bounced back from much in his youth.” 

Strife huffs a humorless laugh, and stares up at the ceiling. “Hoo boy! Freyja save me.”

Hojo glances up at him. “Interesting. You are of the northern peoples?” 

Strife hums. Hojo instructs him to breathe in, and then out. Lungs stronger than last time. “More like my grandmother’s grandmother was.” 

“Are there many of you in Nibelheim still?” 

“Technically everyone. Tradition dies even in hick towns, though. Only thing that’s really left is that everyone’s probably a little related.”

“Do you believe this has something to do with your reaction to the mako? I have heard legends of your people. You know of the snow-women of the Northern Continent? It is believed that there were a few races of unique people who followed the Cetra, the result of genes reappearing every so often before increased intermingling killed some of them off completely. We are all the Cetra’s descendants, in one way or another.” 

Strife shrugs, grinning when he can see that the movement upsets the blood-pressure test he is undergoing. “Dunno. Rest of my family took a pilgrimage up North a little bit before I was born and we never heard from them again. My mom doesn’t use materia any better or worse than any other regular joe. No, her weapon of choice was mostly her voice.” 

There is so much warmth in his voice. It rankles at Hojo—he can track similar warmth in Sephiroth’s voice to his worst periods of rebellion. Humans are social animals, yes, but connection can be devastatingly useless. Interesting information from an unusually chatty Strife, however. He will have to investigate the North in more depth, if possible. 

A chill runs down Hojo’s spine. It’s a short thing, but enough to make him shift restlessly. Strife stares down at him, head tilted. The ambience of Hojo’s domain has long since become recognizable to him. The shuffle of feet, whispered conversation, nails hitting surfaces and throats clearing. In this moment, there is nothing but the quiet hum of the machinery nearby.

“Do you have any regrets in life, Professor?” Strife asks, the openness of his face shuttering off. 

Hojo attempts to take a step back, but Strife’s hand shoots out and wraps around his wrist, vicelike. He can hear a grinding as Strife holds on tight. 

“Guards!” Hojo calls. 

Silence, and his own labored breaths. 

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

“You are being very foolish, Third. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but this company, this program, this world—”

“—needs you?” Strife guesses, brows rising. “Nah. There’s a lot that it needs, but it isn’t you.” 

Strife stands, and he bears Hojo down onto the ground with unrelenting pressure. He grits his teeth, not wanting to give the boy the pleasure of hearing his pain.

“What do you want?” 

“I want you dead.” Strife says. “There are a lot of people who deserve to do this more than I do. But the thing is that letting you live any longer just isn’t worth the risk.” 

“Is this revenge?” Hojo asks. A laugh borne of hysteria is bubbling in his chest. “Is this your way of feeling better about whatever happened to you? Do you know your own body, Strife?”

Strife only smiles. It’s a sad look.

Strife releases his hand, and then just as quickly he squeezes his hands on either side of Hojo’s head. “I know you’ve only got one good eye left. Sorry about that. I was trying to hit a little deeper. Anyway, look at me. I haven’t used this trick in a while...” 

Hojo meets that gaze, and suddenly he is falling. Existence is crumbling beneath him, and his ears are filled with a thunderous song. It tells the tale of the knowledge of everything, and nothing, the beginning, the end, the answers to questions nobody has asked, the memory of lifetime after lifetime. Heartbreak after heartbreak, family after family, smiling faces alive and dead. The Ancients staking their final stand against their inevitable destruction. The promised land, an unending swirl of green that will always reset itself at the presence of even a speck of corruption. Its end, again, and again. 

His head hurts. His head hurts. His head hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks, as always, to danny for checking my telenovela dramatics and catching my stupidest misspellings. you're a peach!!
> 
> school starts for me again this coming monday. i'll be doing a fairly demanding internship (40 hours a week and no pay to speak of, i'm gonna be eating so much ramen :/// ), so i may not have the time or energy to crank out these final updates as regularly as i have been between that and grad school prep. i hope you'll be patient with me! i love writing this story, and to be honest the first drafts most of the final parts have been written--i'm just a stickler about weird things haha. 
> 
> thanks for reading, thanks for sticking around, and thanks for your kind words!


	9. The End 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!! has the new year been treating you well so far? 
> 
> as with the previous chapter, this installment covers much larger spans of time. some people's story lines start a little earlier, some a little later, but they're all intended to converge into one area of time. it's my hope that this was written in a way that's easy to follow, but if it wasn't, i'm happy to clarify!
> 
> danny, i love you to the moon and back. thanks for reading this mess and being so patient with its changes! any leftover mistakes, as always, are mine—especially for this chapter, because i'm pretty sure this is the longest chapter in the whole fic and i HATE reading my own writing which makes self-editing a painful process lol.
> 
> sorry for the month long wait! enjoy!

**1.**

Zangan doesn’t know what to make of Cloud Strife returning to Nibelheim a little over two years after he left, with a mako glow in his eyes and a ShinRa uniform on his back. 

More drama for Nibelheim, it seems. The town still hasn’t settled over Gjertude Strife’s “affair” and apparent notions to move. Zangan recognized the man as Cloud and Tifa’s friend, as much as any adult could be a friend to a child, but some are convinced that she has bewitched a young man to spirit her away from the mountains. Whatever the truth is, it’ll probably be the best for her.

Cloud catches his eye across the town square and gives him a nod of acknowledgement, and then he and the ShinRa men he has arrived with make their way to his mother’s house, where they stay for the remainder of the day.

He doesn’t see the boy until hours later, when most of the people of Nibelheim have cut off their lights, save the Inn, where Zangan has been staying for years now, and the little saloon where the adults go to decompress. Cloud scares Mr. Haring, the Innkeeper, when he walks inside with a jingle of keys and rattling materia.

“Odin Allfather,” Mr. Haring is muttering, shaking his head. 

Cloud gives him a grin that looks almost too bright for his face. “Wow, I’ve been called some stuff before, but never that. Is it the hair? It’s the hair, right?” 

Mr. Haring groans and retreats into the kitchen, his customary escape from conversations that won’t be earning him any money. Cloud turns that amused face on Zangan, and Zangan takes stock.

He’s grown a few inches. He’s wearing wolf-shaped stud earrings, but is otherwise still dressed as modestly as possible. The customary SOLDIER uniform is sleeveless, but Cloud’s arms are covered with skin-tight mesh down to the gloves on his hands. But there’s something different, beyond just the new tan, or the unruly hair dusting his shoulders. It’s the almost manic glint of his eyes as he marches right up to Zangan and says, “I have so many new students for you.” 

“It is good to see you, too, Cloud.” 

“Oh, likewise. Walk with me?”

Intrigued despite himself, Zangan agrees, and they leave the Inn. There isn’t really anywhere to walk in Nibelheim that isn’t around the town square unless you plan on leaving all together, but Cloud leads him on a meandering trail. They talk about Tifa, mostly. There’s an affectionate turn to his lips as Cloud shares the news of her work, and their friends, Tifa’s quiet and dry commentary on the shenanigans of Midgar. 

“What’s this about new students?” Zangan asks, at length. 

Cloud stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I have lots of friends who could probably learn a thing or two about self-defence.” 

“Are they in danger?”

“Oh, yeah. And if they’re not right now, they will be.” 

“What’s the danger?” 

Cloud pauses. “Political upheaval?” 

Zangan’s brows rise. “Oh?” 

Cloud leads him towards the water tower. Zangan remembers seeing him and Tifa planning all manner of mischief up there. Once, they’d been “practicing magic” and spent the day aiming freezing water at people’s heads, until the Mayor had torn for the tower and banned them from seeing each other for a week on account of Cloud’s bad influence. It had been Tifa’s idea.

Cloud takes his customary seat with a creak of old wood, his feet dangling. Zangan stands, half worried that the whole structure will collapse under their shared weight.

“ShinRa needs to fall.”

“You say that as you’re wearing their logo,” Zangan points out. 

“Double-crossing, and all that.” 

And then Cloud surprises him by telling him his plans in fully functional Wutaian—he’d only been passingly conversational before he left Nibelheim, and who knew how he’d learned it even then. He speaks of experiments and suppression and battle. Of Wutai’s fall. Of the people of Midgar, two worlds somehow sharing a space, and the way he’s cultivated trust to blend them. He speaks about their collective obligation to a dying Planet, and how he wants to make sure it’s met. Something big is months away, and Cloud has been fine-tuning the preparations since before he stepped foot off the Nibelheim mountain. It becomes increasingly apparent why he’d switch to a completely different language to share this, because Cloud is speaking of treason. Some would call it terrorism. The lines are blurred. But what _ is _ clear is that some lives will be lost on the other end of it. 

“And what would my place be in all of this?” Zangan asks, crossing his arms over his chest. He will never get used to the chill of Nibelheim. Wutai has its cold snaps and even some snows, but there is something so relentless about the mountains. He glances down at Cloud, entirely unaffected, and knows that part of the shudders wracking his body are not just on account of the weather.

“I just need you to do what you have been. Travel. Teach people how to fight. We don’t have a lot of time left to get where Tifa and I were, but literally anything would help.” Cloud’s voice is rising. He pauses, catches himself. 

Then, quieter, he says, “I know I’m asking a lot. I know you wouldn’t tell anyone any of this. Me and my team will be here for a little while. Think on it and catch me before we go.” 

\--

Zangan visits the Strife household nightly. They can’t speak Wutaian in Gjertude’s house, Cloud explains, because the General is fluent and will suss them out immediately. No, times at Gjertude’s table are dedicated to catch up and the sharing of stories. General Sephiroth looks desperately out of place amongst them, but the whole of them work to include him anyway, especially Gjertude, who has never been afraid of anyone in her life. He seems quietly puzzled by her and her son, will stare at them quietly when he is not standing at the window, taking in their village with a gaze that would look weirdly hungry on anyone else. 

It feels strange, to be in the presence of the person responsible for the demise of Zangan’s home country. He’d left Wutai on a prayer, half in shock that a child could be responsible for taking so many lives. Now, the war in Wutai is well and truly ended, and the Demon of Wutai has been sent to a settlement that barely counts as a village to run the ShinRa equivalent of errands. Zangan wonders if he is a part of Cloud’s gutsy little plans.

Nibelheim is alight with gossip. Cloud and his mother, of course, make it worse, answering bald-faced questions with increasingly ridiculous tales. On market days, Cloud carries heavy baskets for his mother while she shops for fruit and snacks and knick-knacks, and it’s as if he never pulls Zangan to the water tower while they speak of retribution for the Planet. 

And they do speak of it. Zangan’s questions are answered carefully, with responses oscillating between reasonable and downright ridiculous. Cloud shows him maps and messages on a private phone. Zangan can see that he’s moving people around, each with a different goal. This team is building an airship. That team is transporting huge materia. The other is helping operatives in Midgar create recovery items. One is stealing gear—night goggles, bulletproof vests, face-coverings, knives, sunscreen, portable chargers, gloves. It’s scarily efficient in that they have few bases that aren’t moving, a simple system of animal-based code-names, and they are constantly working on using different ciphers and languages for privacy’s sake. 

If there’s a weakness in skill, it’s taught. If someone needs something, it is given. Fake IDs, materia, money, food, sanitary items, literally anything to keep them healthy and efficient. 

“How did you do this?” Zangan breathes, fascinated. 

“Took me a little while, for sure, but it works. It’s not perfect. We think we’ve had a breach, and I’m trying my best to find the weak link. But it’s kept us going for coming on three years now.” Cloud says, as if he’s completely unaware of how impressive this all is. 

\--

Zangan says yes. 

\--

His first assignment brings him to Rocket Town. His contact is a surly man who introduces himself as Cid, and then insists on being called the Captain. He gets a kick out of it when Zangan calls him _ taichou _ , mentions that he's gonna brag to a Vincent about it, and then their crash lessons begin with Cid as his assistant. He’s a steady hand with a spear, but what Cloud’s people need to learn is how to protect themselves in a pinch. Zangan’s _ ryu _ is a mix and match of fighting styles he learned growing up, and is utilitarian to the core. As with any martial art, the best teacher is time and practice, but there are a few things that can be passed on to those with no experience at all. 

\--

He works with clumsy, giggly scientists and firm elders in Cosmo Canyon. Employees of the Gold Saucer give him GP he didn’t earn to help them in locker rooms and lunch halls. In lower Junon, they line up on the beach with the smell of the chemicals above burning in their nostrils. In Midgar, Tifa squeals and gives him a hug before helping him train the most colorful group of people Zangan has ever seen in his life. From there, it’s on to Fort Condor, where the people are simple and amiable, and then to Mideel, where the ozone smell of the natural mako springs is ever present.

He does the whole journey there and back several times over the months. Most everyone in Cloud’s circle chooses their name, but he’s just called Teacher, which suits Zangan just fine. He can only hope that his lessons stick. 

**2.**

The quiet sweetness of Sephiroth’s youth had left him—all of them, truly—after the Wutai war, and whatever intensive treatments Hojo subjected him to afterwards had locked away much of what left him open before. 

He still cares for them, of course. There are two things Sephiroth despises most in the world: liars, and time wasted. Thus, he is honest to a fault and ruthlessly efficient with his time. If he did not want their friendship, they would not see him outside of work. Sephiroth literally protects time in his schedule to spend with them, rain or shine.

When news of Hojo’s death makes its way to them, no one sees Sephiroth outside of his hours of work. He responds to questions and attempts at conversation with one-word answers whenever possible, and is generally difficult to be around.

They are almost turned away when they come for a visit—Sephiroth wordlessly confiscates Genesis’ key, which of course doesn’t end well. Genesis stands in the way of the door, and after a brief pause reaches out to grab Angeal by the wrist, barring him from leaving without an awful fight. 

Genesis is the only person who is willing to touch Sephiroth in any capacity. Even Angeal wouldn’t dare, on most occasions. Genesis shoves Sephiroth on the shoulder once, twice. Sephiroth tilts his head and gives him a look of warning, and earns another shove for it. 

“Are,” a shove, “you,” a jab in the shoulder, “okay?” 

“No. And it angers me that I am not. Please leave.” 

“I will _ not _ leave.” Genesis says, getting right in Sephiroth’s face.

“Angeal, please collect your friend.” Sephiroth says, not breaking eye-contact. 

Angeal realizes something, in this moment. The two of them have become far too comfortable with relying on him to solve their worst spats. Whether they know it or not, they’re two sides of the same locked-off coin, charming and well-spoken and ultimately horrible with handling things that any other adults their age might have learned. “He’s hopeless,” Genesis had said, after they first met Sephiroth, him thirteen and them pushing seventeen. And from then on the agreement had been wordless, that they’d watch out for him as a fellow lab rat snot-nosed kid. When that lab rat snot-nosed kid surpassed them in every way imaginable, Angeal had settled into worried pride and the culmination of Genesis’ experiences had him settling firmly into resentment, but they’d never lost that need to seek out and protect.

“You know what, I don’t think I will.” Angeal says, putting a hand to the door and pulling it open. 

Genesis fixes him with a gaping look, which quickly dissolves into one of victory. On any other day he’d check that, but Sephiroth’s health is more important than playing referee. They can’t allow him to self-isolate. Good things never happen when Sephiroth self-isolates. Sephiroth lets out a disbelieving laugh, but he backs away from his door, allowing them inside. Once they’re in, Genesis reclaims his spare key with a quick snatch. Sephiroth retreats into his bedroom and locks the door with a pointed click. 

They kill time cleaning Sephiroth’s apartment. Sephiroth is normally neat to a fault, and his messes are still the desired standard of cleanliness of anyone else, but it feels weird to see books out of place, and blankets left unfolded on the couch, and a kitchen counter that still has spatterings of flour from a long-completed bout of cooking. 

“What is there not to be okay about?” Genesis asks, his face stormy. 

“You’re being unfair, Genesis,” Angeal sighs. 

Genesis marches up to him with a broom in hand, sweeping at nothing. “How? Please, tell me how?” 

“That was all he’s ever known…” 

“And he should be happy that the worst of it is gone. Did he not,” and Genesis pauses, from where he’s sweeping restlessly at the floor, holds a hand out angrily in the direction of Sephiroth’s bedroom door down the hallway, “did he not toast with us when found out about Hollander? Did he not laugh?” 

Angeal desperately wants him to lower his voice. There is no way Sephiroth can’t hear everything they’re saying, and Genesis knows it. He’s regretting his decision—Genesis’ mercurial nature is at odds with Angeal’s worry for their friend. 

Mistaking Angeal’s frustrated silence for a concession, Genesis faces Sephiroth’s bedroom and calls, “Come out here, Sephiroth. Right now! I have something I need to share with the both of you.” 

Sephiroth says nothing, but both of them can hear the shift of his sheets as he moves restlessly in place. Angeal takes a seat on Sephiroth’s couch, knowing good and well that he’s not going to stop Genesis from talking when he’s like this. 

“A long, long, long, long time ago, a meteorite slammed into our planet.” Genesis hits his open palm with a fist for emphasis, the sound resounding uncomfortably in the silence of Sephiroth’s apartment. “This is when the Cetra were still around. As an advanced and naturally curious people, they decided they would send somebody to investigate. What they would soon learn is that there was something in the meteorite.” 

Angeal can hear the creak of Sephiroth’s door.

“Oh, hello! Are you going to join us, young man? I know you like fairy tales. This one’s a little macabre, but it involves you, so you should hear it. Are you listening?” 

Sephiroth says, “Whatever point you’re trying to make, I suggest you make it.” 

Genesis smiles, but it’s not a nice smile. “The something inside the meteorite was a creature that would later be known by ShinRa scientists as _ Jenova. _” 

“Genesis, that’s enough.” Angeal cuts in, shocked on Sephiroth’s behalf. 

That’s an incredibly unkind thing to say. Sephiroth knows little of the circumstances of his birth, but they’re familiar with his birth mother’s name. Sephiroth has always had a quiet fascination with motherhood—he’d once spoken to Angeal about a kind woman he’d known, his early years in the labs. She’d been loved dearly by Professor Gast, and newly pregnant before he saw her last. He never found out what happened to her, but knowing the Science Department, it can’t have been good. If the pregnancy wasn’t volunteered, than the fruits of it were likely stolen, by force if necessary. He’d also built a strong attachment to one of Hojo’s aides, a woman whose name none of them know. Sephiroth calls her Nanny, and she is one of the only people who’d ever dare to tell him what to do. She seems to care for him more than the average Science Department goon. She’d been an almost ghostly presence for all she was around after the worst of the Wutai War, and sometimes they can find her in Sephiroth’s apartment after a particularly rough bout in the labs, administering unnamed medication or cooking him dinner while tutting about him not following his diet. Angeal has always found the cognitive dissonance bizarre—how someone could claim to love a child while also bearing witness to their torment. 

He and Genesis have families. They may be broken and unhealthy, but they had them—had childhoods and punishments and gifts and bedtime stories. 

“Let him finish,” Sephiroth says, making his way down the hallway. His eyes are steely.

When he sits beside Angeal, the very air around him feels frigid.

“Jenova is singlehandedly responsible for the extinction of the Cetra people. Once she bonds with someone, she can both take their form on as her own and corrupt the bodies of her host. Her cells are a cancer. She turned neighbor against neighbor, and drove them to sealing her away in the North Crater. There her remains would stay for two-thousand years, until they were extracted by one Professor Gast.”

Sephiroth shifts uncomfortably at this name. It is rarely spoken in the Science Department without being met with Hojo’s ire or the nervous dismissal of employees old enough to remember him. Genesis begins to pace, waving his hands about as he walks. 

“Professor Gast mistook her for a Cetra. He gave her the name we know her by now, and then the Science Department immediately began to see if they could bring the Cetra back by using her cells. A woman who worked with the Science Department, Gillian Hewley, offered her body up to the experiments. She was injected with some of Jenova’s cells. When she gave birth to you,” Genesis pauses in front of Angeal, who is struggling with the cold shock running down his spine, “you got some of Jenova’s cells… _ naturally. _ This is important! Because a few months later yours truly was conceived.” 

Genesis’ false cheer is lost, then. He looks down at the two of them as if he’s seeing them for the first time. He looks up at the ceiling, laughs up at like it has just told him something vital. He sits down on the couch. The three of them are sitting in the same way, with their hands clasped tightly, staring ahead of themselves. 

“When I was still in my birth mother’s womb, I was implanted with Jenova’s cells. Oaf, do you remember when we fought, some time ago? Where the Seconds go to train?” Genesis asks, the question delivered softly. 

Sephiroth nods. 

“And you remember how Professor Hollander refused to let you give me a transfusion for my injury.” 

A quicker, shakier nod. Shared trauma makes it easy to learn the most random, intimate things about a person. Sephiroth has type O blood.

“Introducing Jenova cells into something that was not—that hadn’t always existed that way is a very dangerous thing. The parts that make you up, they degrade over time, because they’ll always need more of her to feed off of. If more of Jenova’s cells are not present, she’ll eat at _ you _r cells to compensate. It makes you a puppet until you die. The death is slow, and stupid, and weak. When the sword cut me, my body had to choose between fighting her off and healing me. It was losing the battle. I was dying because of something that would have healed within an hour four years ago.” Genesis moves his shoulder uncomfortably, shaking off the memory.

Then, energized, he turns to face them, face earnest. 

“You, Sephiroth, you? Were born in the same way Angeal was. Your mother—your real mother, not that fucking _ thing —_was a scientist. And she—”

And it’s this that makes Sephiroth break his silence. He laughs. “Truly?”

“Yes. Her name was Lucrecia Crescent. She was Professor Hojo’s wife, if you can believe anyone would marry him!” 

For some reason, that breaks tension between them. Solidarity in shared hate, Angeal supposes. He watches with concern as they share a look and a tired chuckle. 

“So he is—_was _ my father. I had my suspicions...” Sephiroth hedges. 

Genesis’ face falls. “This isn’t how I wanted to tell you any of this. I’m sorry, you two. I just—” 

“Just finish, Genesis, please.” Angeal cuts in. 

“Sephiroth, the methods that made you came a few years after us. Hojo had time to refine the process, the method of implantation, all of it. And for you, Jenova’s presence was always how you existed. It’s why you look the way you do. It’s why you’re so different from us.”

Sephiroth tucks his hair behind his ears. “I knew, ever since I was a child… I was not like the others. I knew mine was a special existence. But this… this was not what I meant.” 

Genesis shoves him, sending him knocking into Angeal’s side, but only because he allows it. “So you look like an axolotl, you’re unnaturally intelligent, and you’re the most powerful man on the planet. You’re still human, and you still have us. Grow up.” He hisses. 

Angeal pats Sephiroth on the back as he rights himself, eyes tired. 

They sit in silence for a time.

“Are you still dying? Would a transfusion from me help?” Sephiroth asks.

“No, I’ve been healed. That’s actually what I’ve been trying to speak to the both of you about for some time now. My sickness was cured. So was Angeal’s.” 

Angeal starts. “My _ sickness _?” 

“Jenova is a sickness. Even if you didn’t feel any different, it’s not good to leave her in your system. Sephiroth, there’s a way to help you, too. I’m sure of it. I need to speak to a friend about it…” 

“What do you mean I was ‘cured’?” Angeal demands, reaching around Sephiroth to tug on Genesis’ ear.

Genesis bats his hand away. “That’s not important. There’s… a group of people. As far as I know, they have no name. They’ve been working together for years now. They’re trying to save the Planet.” 

“That sounds like AVALANCHE.” Angeal points out. 

“They rub elbows sometimes, I have to be honest with you; but this is not AVALANCHE. I’m almost completely sure that the person leading it all works for ShinRa. He has friends in places high and low. They gather information, trade it and sell it, and they’re working on exposing ShinRa’s secrets. Their leader reached out to me to tell me the truth of it all.” 

“You understand you are speaking of treason.” Sephiroth warns. 

“Sephiroth, when have you ever wanted to be here? Do you even know what you want? By the Goddess, you should be in college!” Genesis stresses, his hands curled with frustration.

He turns to Angeal. “Let me put it this way. There’s no honor in this. None at all. They put some swords in our hands when we were children and told us to kill other children. They say jump, we say, ‘how high?’ They say destroy, we say ‘what’s the limit for damages?’ Is this all you want out of life? Every SOLDIER under us ? They need us to look out for them, because _ no one else is. _ We’re weapons and we’re killing the planet so we can get stronger. We’re ShinRa lapdogs. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy playing fetch any longer.”

Feeling unmoored and exhausted, Angeal props his chin into his hand. Sephiroth, in a twist of long limbs, wraps himself in a blanket, staring at the wall. Genesis monopolizes the rest of the space on the couch by splaying his lithe form out, his legs dangling over the side. 

“We’re quite the bunch.” He says. 

“A little while ago, Genesis, there was a break-in on our floor. A while afterwards, the Vice President approached me about a security breach. To think, you were involved the entire time. I should have figured.” Sephiroth murmurs. 

Genesis breaks out into wheezing laughter. “That was me! Did I do a good job? I tried not to give Miss Barbie too much trouble, the poor thing.” 

Usually, it is Genesis who expresses his emotions with his hands. Angeal breaks character, reaches over, and whacks him upside the head. 

\--

Genesis has no tact with the people he cares about. It does not mean he has not buried a truth at their feet that will claw its way back out in time. 

As the days pass, he calls for them to meet in Sephiroth’s apartment every night, and brings report after report with him. They know the jargon of the Science Department by now, and while these are apparently not the original reports, and he’d had to fight harshly for the permission to share it with them, they are allowed to read it. 

They relieve some of their worst days in reports of more grueling training days. A month that Angeal remembers only because of the hazy delirium it drove him to is described as a “Success—subject surpassed magical boundary and connected with materia despite depletion of natural reserves.” A colorful way to say that he’d burned several layers of his skin with fire materia in a fit of desperation for days on end, gritting his teeth through the brief burst of agony as his flesh knit itself back together.

Angeal is not an idiot. He knows well that ShinRa is not in the right in all that it has done in Midgar and across the sea. Still, seeing it presented in such a stark, observational manner, is chilling.

Angeal’s mother calls him once a week. She’s always been quietly proud of his work in SOLDIER, and asks after his progress religiously. It is a rhythm he craves and has always appreciated, but her calls feel eerie, somehow. The knowledge of her involvement in all of this is lingering in the back of his mind. Who is his real father? Is the story she told him of his birth father the truth? What did Jenova’s cells do to her body? Does she regret it? He comes close to asking her, but is unable to reconcile the gentle soul that raised him with the person who would give him over to ShinRa. 

\--

Genesis tentatively shares stories of his work with his informant. Each person has a role, and a name chosen in honor of their most favored animal. Most of them receive a partner. He speaks of his, a girl from the slums, with fondness. Genesis has been helping her train their people in the basic applications of materia. 

“Aiding and abetting dangerous revolutionaries, you mean,” Sephiroth says, but he has that familiarly teasing smirk on his face. 

(Genesis, for once not rising to the bait, grins back at him.)

Apparently the next biggest undertaking is seeing to the threat of the Turks. Right now, they’re carrying resources and people all over, and any more sniffing from the Turks could compromise the entire thing. Angeal has no idea how they could ever hope to solve that problem. The Turks work away at their assignments with single-minded efficiency, as water shapes a rock. They are small but scarily mighty.

“Genesis, you know I’m with you to the end of the line. I just hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.” Angeal tells him.

Genesis smiles at him. Then he looks at Sephiroth. “What about you? Are you joining in our little march?” 

And there are so many things Angeal would like to say in this moment. That voicing his support does not constitute an endorsement of a movement that could be the end of them if it falls apart. That he’s still sorting out his own thoughts about his place in the world and in ShinRa. That if it were up to him, they’d all leave for an uninhabited island far away from any of this and strike out there. 

Sephiroth says, “As soon as I can figure out what the purpose of this ‘little march’ is, I’ll get back to you.” 

Which isn’t a no. They are going to be the death of Angeal.

\--

Zack and his protege are in his office when Angeal stops by to visit. Zack brightens at the sight of him, and Strife gives him a small smile of greeting. 

“Hey, old man,” Zack says, “back on assignment?” 

“Yes. They’ve given me a fun round of paperwork to start off with. I think Lazard may be trying to tell me something.” Angeal jokes. 

“Hey, Cloud’s really good at forging signatures—” 

“He’s lying, actually, I don’t know how to read or write in Common.” Strife quickly interjects. He’s clearly reading a book written in Common, his legs propped up onto Zack’s desk. “Zack made me forget because I’m always doing his work for him and it’s so boring I lost brain cells.” 

Zack snickers. “Sit down, Angeal. How’ve you been? How was the break?” 

“Uneventful, up until a little while ago. I’m happy to be back.” 

“You’re happy to be back? Gosh, the sky’s falling.” Zack says, turning his attention back to the papers he’d been looking over. 

Angeal, glad to have his company, opens his own folder of work. Zack’s office has huge windows, and he often keeps his curtains pulled up, claiming that he needs the sunlight to breathe. The view of upper plate Midgar is a sprawling one, but what makes it worth it is the peek of green from the open plains beyond Midgar. Angeal, rooted in his familiar seat, sits like a sunning cat and thinks that things just might be okay. 

After a few moments spent in companionable silence, there’s a knock on the door. Zack doesn’t close his door unless he’s having private meetings. Angeal glances up and sees that Genesis is leaning against the door, his hands knuckles curled towards the glass.

“I’m here to retrieve you. Sephiroth needs us for papers,” Genesis says.

“Hey, Genesis,” Zack pipes in, rolling his eyes. 

Curiously, Strife glances up at Genesis, and then digs his nose into his book. The action is smooth, with no apparent signs of nervousness, but it’s out of place on someone as unapologetically confident as him. 

“Fair. Is this your pet?” Genesis asks, curious. 

“This is your coworker and newly appointed Soldier Third Class, Cloud Strife!” Zack corrects, inordinately proud. 

“A pleasure.” Genesis says. 

There’s a beat of silence. Strife, not looking up from his book (the title reads PROTEST, HOPE, AND THE POWER OF RESISTANCE), hums a little noise. 

“I see he’s inherited your cheerful disregard for respect.” Genesis snarks. “Angeal, please.” 

“Cloud, please say hi?” Zack asks, brows furrowing even as he’s chuckling a little. 

Strife clears his throat. Then, marking his page, he glances up at Genesis. “Nice to meet you, General Rhapsodos.” 

Genesis’ reaction is full-body. He pushes away from Zack’s door, and tilts his head. The smile that’s spreading on his face is a little mean, the delight in his eyes clear to see. “Likewise, _ Cloud Strife. _ Seems you do have manners.” 

Strife’s nose is reddening. “Yeah, well. Don’t wear it out, and all that. Sir.”

“I think that only applies to names, Cloud.” 

Genesis glances at him for a beat longer, and then he turns his smile to Angeal. “Sephiroth will have a tantrum if we don’t come to his office to sign off on surrender documents t-minus five minutes ago.” 

Angeal rises to his feet, giving Strife a worried look. Zack is looking at him as well. Strife is pressing his face determinedly into his book. 

As he and Genesis make their way out, Angeal asks, “What was that all about?” 

“We just have a friend in common, is all.” Genesis says. 

It’s a lie. Genesis is a horrible liar. It means something that he doesn’t seem to care whether Angeal believes him or not. 

\--

“How are you doing, Sephiroth?” Angeal asks. 

They’re cleaning the training room after a rigorous round of paces. They’ve been re-purposing drills from their cadet days to stay sharp for years.

“I am living.” Sephiroth answers. 

“Have you given thought to Genesis’ little plan?” 

“Have you?” Sephiroth answers a question with a question, but he turns to face Angeal, and he can see that it’s asked not out of resistance but a genuine need to know. 

“I have.”

“Care to elaborate?” 

“I don’t… know where to go from here. From this.” With this last word, Sephiroth makes a sweeping gesture with his arms, indicating their gilded training room, the windows with their view of the opulent city below.

“You wanna know something? Neither do I,” Angeal admits. 

He pulls the Buster Sword from its sheath on his back, feels its hilt sturdy and familiar in his palms. He can feel Sephiroth’s eyes on him as he presses the flat of his blade to his forehead, closing his eyes at the press of chilled metal against his skin. This ritual focuses his thoughts, grounds him. 

“If we involve ourselves in this and it doesn’t go the way Genesis seems to believe it will, we’ll be killed.” Sephiroth says. 

Angeal laughs, sighs through his nose. “Yeah, I know.” 

“And if it does go well, then what? A brave new world, ShinRa gone, the planet saved?”

“Best case scenario, some would say.” 

Sephiroth hums in agreement. When Angeal sheathes his sword, those catlike eyes are all but boring into him. “What do you like, Sephiroth? Any idea of what you’d want to do? I think I’d be happy with a farm.” 

Sephiroth surprises him by saying, “I like people. I suppose it would be fascinating to study them. Not in the way that we were studied. I like their stories and histories.”

Before Angeal can reply, Sephiroth shakes his head, a rueful look on his face. “Never mind. I’ll see you soon.” 

“Hey, Sephiroth? What Genesis said is true, you know. You’re still human, and you’ll have us until you’re sick of us.” 

Sephiroth doesn’t stop walking, but Angeal can see him dip his head in acknowledgement.

\--

The advice of the week from Sephiroth’s assistant is delivered early in the morning. According to Sephiroth, Barbie says _ Don’t suffer future pain. _

_ Decisiveness is best! _ Genesis says, and then, _ Chop, chop, gentlemen. _

\--

“Fair, bring your little friend to dinner, why don’t you?” Genesis says, over paperwork. 

“The kid literally told me he’d rather eat paper than speak to you again.” Zack replies. 

“Not an unreasonable desire.” Sephiroth quips, not looking up from a manila folder. 

“Why are you so intent on him, anyway?” Angeal asks, 

Genesis splays his hands in an oddly conciliatory way, as if he hadn’t invited all of this. “It’s important that we speak to those who are going to be carrying on our legacy!” 

Zack snorts. “Yeah. Like you can make those here without stepping all over someone’s face, first.” 

Angeal is unable to mask his startled blink. He’s heard Zack get wry about their work, but never has he been downright mocking of it. In any other situation, Angeal would dismiss it as the clarity of age coming down upon him—Zack had been all of thirteen years old when he flounced his way into SOLDIER HQ to enlist, all idealism, cheer, and characteristic Western Continent honesty. 

Genesis lets out a delighted laugh, “All the more reason for us to speak with him!” 

Zack says, “What for, Genesis? Do you have some kind of mean girl speech prepared? You can be so much.” 

“You may have stolen a key to my apartment, but it’s not actually your space to share with others.” Sephiroth tacks on, still not looking up. 

“Sephiroth, can I invite Zack’s strange little cadet to dinner?” 

“He’s not a cadet anymore—” 

“Yes, that will be fine. Strife was fine company on the mission to Nibelheim.” 

Angeal tilts his head, “Sephiroth, you realize that whole song and dance didn’t make any sense.” 

“Very few things do, these days.” 

“What’s wrong with you guys?” Zack bursts out. “Everyone is acting so crazy here, lately.”

The four of them share looks edging on sheepish. 

“We can’t talk about it here.” Genesis says. 

A tense few weeks later, while they’re waiting for a reluctant Strife to arrive at Sephiroth’s apartment, Genesis starts the conversation with a heavily edited and truncated version of the truth. “I’ve been working with a group of highly organized people who want to bring ShinRa down.” 

Zack surprises them all by telling them that he’s been running materia to Cosmo Canyon on his days off. “I suck at keeping secrets, this is a relief.” 

“Did you know that it’s your student running all of it?” Genesis demands, leaning in. 

Angeal can’t stop himself from giving Zack an alarmed look. 

Through grit teeth, Sephiroth says, “Oh?” 

Zack splays his hands wide, but his jaw is set in the way that spells a fight. 

Angeal stands, needing to work off the nervous energy that is building in his chest. “Why didn’t either of you think to tell me about this? Genesis, you stuck me in the neck with a needle. You still can’t explain what was inside of it. You’ve been doing this crazy work for months behind my back, and you’ve stuck your neck out for something that’s almost one hundred percent doomed to fail. Zack, you’ve been working with me for five years and you know that I wouldn’t ever do anything to put you in danger. If either of you felt unhappy, why not come to me about it? What in the world made you think you couldn’t have?” 

Because is that not Angeal’s role, in all of this? The debriefer, the mediator? The person to whom there are no secrets, because he keeps them? No one can ever say that SOLDIER is perfect, but if Angeal is proud of anything, it is of earning his place as its heart and staying there, keeping the people in his orbit under a protection they wouldn’t find elsewhere. 

Zack and Genesis, faces darkened with similar regrets, are interrupted by a knock on Sephiroth’s door. Both of them twitch, making as if to stand. Sephiroth leans forward in his seat.

“I’ll get it. Sit down,” Angeal says this in a harsher tone than he intended, but it gets their mouths closed, and stills them. 

When Angeal answers the door, Strife is staring down at his phone like the young person he is. He seems nothing like a spy, nothing like a revolutionary, and yet, here they are. 

“Oh. Good afternoon, Mr. Hewley.” Strife mumbles. 

“You have a lot of explaining to do.” 

“Yikes, am I serving detention?” Strife pockets his phone.

“Not now, Cloud. Come in,” Zack calls. 

“Hello, Omega,” Genesis says, smiling nastily. 

“Shut up.” Sephiroth tells him. 

Genesis shuts up.

“Ah, we took some cats out of some bags, huh?” Strife asks, sighing. 

He’s wearing black from head to toe, leather jacket and clunky boots, like a biker straight out of a magazine. When he meets Zack’s gaze, he gives him a affectionate little smile, entirely at odds with the unapproachable look of him. He nods at Sephiroth, who returns the courtesy with narrowed eyes.

“Third, as you stand before us, you are guilty of a running list of violations. Treason, for one. Conspiracy, under the Midgarian government. Hacking and theft, I assume. What do you have to say for yourself?” Sephiroth asks.

“I say I’d do it all again, sir, and that I like you but you’re definitely not gonna stop me. Also, you forgot several counts premeditated murder and assault.” Strife says, not missing a beat. 

“Professor Hojo?” 

Strife presses his lips thin into what some people might call a smile.

Zack says, “oh, _ Cloud _,” and Genesis’ face shutters. 

Strife, after unzipping his boots and placing them aside, sits with his legs crossed under the living room table. With his hands clasped on its glass surface, he gives them a look that is almost apologetic, and shrugs his shoulder.

Angeal asks the question that has been bouncing around his head for over a month. “Why?” 

Strife opens his mouth, only to be interrupted by Zack. “Please don’t say ‘why not’. Give them a serious answer.”

So Strife breathes in, and gives them a serious answer. “I’ve built a lot of skills that let me do more digging than the average person. I found out a lot about what ShinRa’s been doing to its own people and people, well, everywhere. I’ve witnessed firsthand what they do to people under the plate. I didn’t sit well with me. I decided it needed to be changed. You saw some of it. Sephiroth, I _ know _ you saw some of it growing up. Hojo’s little experiments.” 

Sephiroth’s expression is flat. “Millions of lives in this city will be negatively impacted if all of this fails.” 

“But I won’t fail.” Strife says. Before Sephiroth can respond, he turns to Genesis, “Tell him, cowboy. Things are air-tight. If there’s a problem it came from the inside, not because of anything I’ve done to be sloppy. Can you confirm?” 

“_ Cowboy? _” Zack is whispering, as Genesis runs a stressed hand through his hair and gives Sephiroth a nod.

“If you have any questions, ask them now.” Strife says.

He stretches his back with several odd-sounding pops, brows furrowing in pain. Once his stance slackens, he heaves a sigh and slumps his shoulders forward. The skin under his eyes looks dark. That’s the same bone-weary tiredness Angeal remembers seeing in his stepfather, growing up, the need to stretch a sore and aching body into shape to take advantage of every scant moment of rest. 

Sephiroth is relentless. How many people is he working with? (At present, around the world? Three-hundred, give or take, with people who are auxiliary guarantees by association.) How did he land on being called Omega? (Oh, that was a nickname someone gave him a long time ago.) How old is he, really? (Just turned seventeen.) What are his plans for afterwards? (He wants ShinRa eradicated all together and Midgar changed completely—no more upper and lower plate, and eventually no Midgar at all. He wants to restore governments. He wants to help Wutai rebuild. He wants the Planet to live.) How will he solve the problem of their dependence on mako? (He’s been working on that for years—there are several alternatives and he’s willing to share plans.) How is he paying for all of this? (He’d gotten his start saving up by exploring the Nibelheim in the years leading up to his move to Midgar, and worked tirelessly at any manner of odd jobs he could find in his free time, only a third of it legal. The rest comes from generous benefactors in and outside of the city.) Who else in ShinRa is he working with? (Unless they’re going to join up, he’s not at liberty to say.)

What does he plan to do about the Turks? 

It’s this question that cracks the calm aura about him. “Well, I’m working on it. As far as I can tell, they’re all so loyal—there’s no recruiting them, even junior Turks. I’ve honestly been considering just finding a way to lock them away until it’s all over.” 

Angeal asks him, “Are you safe?” 

Strife snorts. “Nah. But that’s what makes it fun.” 

Sephiroth breaks in. “How does your mother feel about all of this?” 

It’s not a question any of them are expecting, but they share somber looks and then wait for an answer. 

“My mother doesn’t know about this, sir.” 

“And why not?” 

“Because she wouldn’t be able to sleep? Because I’m her only kid? My mother’s safe in Cosmo Canyon, by now, and she’ll stay that way no matter what happens. She’ll be sad if something happens to me, but she’ll be okay.” 

Angeal’s control breaks. He rubs at his eyes, and releases a great, shuddering breath. “Gaia.” 

Zack lets out a frustrated noise. “Please don’t ever say something like that again. Hey, you know what? It’s late, we’re all hungry and tired. We can keep talking about this more later.”

Dinner begins somberly, but there’s something about Strife’s off-color remarks that lightens the atmosphere. It doesn’t escape Angeal’s notice that Strife is charming. He has a way with words, can shock reactions out of someone and then bring them back down with a little smile or a word, like breaking a spell. He matches Genesis tit-for-tat, seems to relish in making Zack laugh, will not allow Sephiroth to exclude himself from conversation. And with Angeal, Strife asks questions that are impossible to answer shortly without seeming rude, and responds thoughtfully and respectfully. 

If his work is as sprawling as he says it is, Angeal can at least see how he got it off the ground. 

When their night together draws to a close, Cloud tells them the number of his separate phone. 

“General. Mr. Hewley,” and what a strange distinction for Strife to make, when he and Sephiroth are the same rank, “if either of you want to get involved… let me know.” 

\--

“It’s ridiculous that a child has been doing what we couldn’t.” Sephiroth says, after another training session. He leaves the words about the years of abuse they endured unsaid, but Angeal feels them anyway.

“But do you think he’s right?” Angeal asks. 

“I think he believes he is, and I think that can take him a long way.” 

Sephiroth talks about their emails—Strife’s questions about magic use and SOLDIER and tactics. He questions just how much of that was put towards his career and how much of it was fueled into tightening his little operation. Strife is entirely unconcerned and almost mocking of Sephiroth’s position, but rarely in a way that feels personal. Put simply, he finds ShinRa’s established hierarchy dangerous and unnecessary, and is unafraid to speak on (and, apparently, destroy) it.

Angeal can respect carrying a conviction. He has spoken to the SOLDIERS underneath them about conviction and honor at length. Even the greenest recruit knows that they can reach out to him for support. He has influenced entire cohorts of SOLDIERs through the years—it’d even earned them the nickname of the Hewley Generation, a group of young men dedicated to best practice as far as best practices exist under ShinRa. Zack had been a part of the youngest of the bunch—Angeal hadn’t been able to stomach the idea of allowing a gutsy thirteen year old to make his paces through their program without supervision.

It is in Strife’s favor that his colleagues and superiors have nothing but good things to say about him. Sephiroth supports the endorsement. What worries Angeal is that the answer of what will happen to those colleagues on the other side of this, if it goes the way he wants. 

“So is that a yes, Sephiroth? To his question?” Angeal asks.

Sephiroth holds the Masamune in front of him, gaze unwavering on its glittering length. “I never told anyone what General Tozen told me, the day I got the Masamune.” 

“What did she say?” 

Angeal watches in fascination as Sephiroth banishes the blade in a horizontal swath of glittering magic. Sephiroth’s pupils always dilate whenever he calls upon or dismisses it, reminding him of a cat intent on especially appealing prey. 

“She said that she hoped I could be free of ShinRa.” 

Angeal nods his understanding. Accepts that the tides are changing whether he wants them to or not, and that there are people who will need him regardless.

\--

They discuss splitting their free time between them. Sephiroth’s will be more difficult. He has always been on the tightest leash of all of them, and with the Science Department running through the necessary decisions on who will lead them in the wake of Hojo’s death, he is unlikely to be allowed out of the city, no matter what Lazard needs of him in the field. Angeal, who is returning from a break, will have to earn his time away. Genesis has been awarded with light duty for his accomplishments in Wutai, and has already been devoting his time to the cause under the moniker of Bobcat. They aren’t given nicknames for their high risk, but Strife works with them on how they can contribute.

The bulk of their help comes in financial and magical support. Sephiroth casts Wall on box upon box of homemade elixirs. Sephiroth quizzes Strife on an endless amount of tactical maneuvers, on chemical compounds, on magical theory, Wutaian… an endless list of things that to the average person would only be passingly relevant but all devoted to change. The punishment is a harshly worded, “Again,” which both irritates and energizes Strife into action. 

“No offense, sir,” Strife says, after flubbing round after round of questions about summoning magic, “but you make me so angry.” 

“That sounds like a personal problem.” Sephiroth hums, a phrase lifted straight out of Zack’s vocabulary. 

Strife, recognizing this, grins. Then they get back to work, the irritation drained. Sephiroth is something of a scientist, though he would likely reject the title if ever it was spoken aloud. For as long as Angeal has known him, he attacks new things to be learned with voracity. He latches onto something and does not lose interest in it until he’s satisfied. For him, stressed and confined and woefully under stimulated, this is almost an exercise in self-care.

Angeal has been saving money since they first started earning. The paychecks had been measly at first, and Angeal almost always sent a majority of his home to his family, in the early days. The paychecks had earned zeroes the longer they climbed in the ranks. With Genesis’ help, they budget to account for time, for appearances, for themselves. Genesis will bring their work to his partner, Butterfly, who runs the sums and then passes them along to Strife’s record keeper, who Zack explains is Cloud’s best friend. Once she approves the distribution of funds, they start the process of actually moving it around.

They’re heavily advised to mask it all with an uptick in general spending—the money is shared with Strife’s people under the mask of puppet vendors. Angeal has no idea how they managed to establish such a thing. He spends more on food and supplies, and asks his (vaguely disturbing, but generally kind-hearted) fan club to share it with others. It has the unintended side benefit of making local news because of the noise they generate about it online. As good a smoke screen as any, he supposes.

\--

Their phones connect them to means of communication. He’s fascinated by the myriad of names. It’s not uncommon for a contact he doesn’t recognize to message him—typically they are shortly worded requests for this amount of funds to be sent to that “vendor,” with the justification. He often hears from a Narwhal, another benefactor, about collaborating for sending funds to certain causes within. He’s sure they’ve given several people cars. Teams in Mideel and Cosmo Canyon have been buying set after set of materials for solar panels and wind turbines. For a while, there is a huge amount of requests for help getting night vision goggles—the best kind one can purchase outside of ShinRa. The Captain, out of Rocket Town, asks for over thirty thousand Gil, the justification a starkly worded _ repairs for the fucking airship because Vincent's a crackhead. _

Angeal’s favorite request is from Genesis. _ Seeds for Butterfly’s garden. _

\--

“We’re gonna need you guys on the ground when the day comes,” Strife tells him, over the phone. “Then it’s really the point of no return. You game?” 

Angeal tosses what this means around in his head for a little while. “I’m not attacking a comrade.” 

“I’m not asking you to, sir. I have a job for you and the other generals.”

The job is unexpected. Simple. Draw on a materia, which will be provided, until their stores run out. Angeal wonders if Strife is aware this has not happened for him, or Genesis, and especially not Sephiroth, in years. 

“Oh, I’m counting on that.” Strife says.

**3.**

When Cloud comes to headquarters with a new assignment for AVALANCHE, Tifa can tell that _ something _ has changed.

Barret has the funniest way of describing people. They’ve all spent nights choking into their drinks at his colorful assessments of the people in their life. In his stead, everyone who visits the bar has taken to calling President ShinRa an “old gobble-neck type of dude,” and Jesse and her friends are affectionately known as the Egg Heads, for their tech expertise. Over the years, Barret has come up with all number of names for Cloud. Spikey, which is the one that stuck. Uppity. Froggy, for his audacious nature. Smartass. Gung-ho.

Today, Cloud storms into her bar with a thunderous look on his face and all Tifa can think is that dangerous would be a good one to add to the list.

“Cloud?” She calls out, hesitant.

She said it lowly, but he hears her anyway—and when they meet gazes he visibly softens, even though his lips are still pulled into a scowl.

“Hey.” He mumbles.

With a groan, he all but melts into his customary chair. Tifa keeps some pressed apple juice behind the counter just for him. He lets out a noise of appreciation as she slides a glass towards him.

He’ll tell her what’s wrong, in time. When Cloud gets angry—really angry, not the strange mix of amusement and irritation he expresses when someone has frustrated him—it is difficult for him to shake it. For Cloud, it’s nearly full-body, leaves him quiet and tense. 

For now, it’s nice to have his presence, to hear the mountain drawl of his voice as people approach him to see how he is. She can tell he’s doing his best to rein himself in.

“The Turks are a problem.”

The _ I told you so _ resting in her chest is strong. She’s sure Cloud can hear it.

Diplomatically, she says, “I thought you said having their attention was helpful.”

“I,” Cloud snarls, through clenched teeth, “was wrong.”

This statement draws _ so _ many eyes from their crew. Tifa, even through her sympathetic nervousness, has to bite her lip to hide her laugh at the goggled-eyes looks angled their way. Sensing their gaze, Cloud turns around and gives them what she’s sure is a narrow-eyed look of challenge.

“I’m sorry, Cloud. What do you need from me?” Tifa asks. 

There’s no way there isn’t work to be done in order to fix this.

\--

For the next few days, they call meetings in the headquarters downstairs to start with the more obvious things, just to cover their tracks. 

The first place to start is with Aerith, but she would never betray them. Aerith is nervously mum on why the Turks follow her the way they do. Sometimes they will leave her be for days, weeks, months at a time, only to reappear with a quiet insistence. Tifa can always tell when this happens, because the fear of the whole thing always makes her clam up. Aerith is not prone to tears, and the only times Tifa has seen her come close is because some Turk is lingering at her church, or following her mother, or staring from across the street. 

But they’ve always accommodated Aerith’s unique circumstance. She gives the alert when the Turks are on rotation again, and they are sure not to involve her in any of their work. They still visit her, because no one should be alone in a time like that. Aerith’s grip on Tifa’s arm is especially tight, these days. Aerith likes to hold people—likes to reach out and feel their warmth, she’s said. On days with the Turks, her hands are no longer warmly exploratory, but shaky with the need for comfort.

Aerith offered to try and speak to them, a little while ago.

“Not on my watch.” Cloud says, once he’s reminded of the offer. 

“Yeah, fuck that,” Barret says.

Tifa feels so much affection for them. 

The next place lies in ShinRa operatives. This is more complicated. Most people working with ShinRa are discontent with their work. It’s difficult to find employment with them that keeps hands blood free, even (especially) in janitorial positions. However, the temptation of a better life can be strong for even the kindest soul. They’ve learned this the hard way multiple times—this is why their operation has no name, why secrecy is so tightly upheld in more outlying arms of their work, why Cloud personally screens each new member. 

“We’ve got a few SOLDIERs.” Cloud hums. About forty, to be exact, with the recent addition of the three generals. Tifa is _ still _ struggling to understand how Cloud managed that. “As for ordinary ShinRa? At least a hundred.” 

Barret looks over at where Jesse and her best friends, Biggs and Wedge, are observing the meeting with wide, eager eyes. As they are technically AVALANCHE, they’re under Barret’s authority. He has been inviting them to meetings in the hopes of intimidating them away from more intense operations. It has backfired spectacularly.

“Egg Heads? Any ideas?” Barret gruffs.

They brighten. When Cloud turns his curious gaze on them, Jessie blushes and the boys shrink back. 

“We can, uh, we can help you look people over,” Wedge stammers. 

Jessie is nodding along. “No secrets with us!” 

Biggs is looking at her like she’s grown another eye.

Cloud gives her a half smile. “Think you guys can mess around with the Turks, too?”

“Yes, of course!” Jessie says, at the same time Biggs says, “with the luck of the gods on our side, _ maybe _.”

Barret gives Cloud a wry look. “Probably a bust.”

“Aren’t you good with that stuff, Cloud?” Tifa asks.

Cloud sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, but it’s so slow going. I just don’t have the time. If I’m rushed, I’ll be sloppy. I have to put the bulk of my attention where it’ll serve us the best.”

He looks so tired. Tifa reaches out for his hand and squeezes it. He squeezes back.

“I didn’t want to do this right now, but I think it’s time we leaked the ShinRa secrets.”

“No way,” Barret says, immediately. “We had a schedule, Spikey. I’m tellin’ you, we do this right when we feel like somebody might be onto us, and we look sus as hell.” 

“It won’t matter how fucked it looks if they’re scrambling to cover their asses! Look.” 

Cloud storms over to the dry erase board they keep at the back of the room and, after unscrewing a marker, begins drawing. Up top, he draws an especially rotund face, complete with double chin, and writes_ PREZ _. “The Bastard in Chief is very concerned with image. A lot of my post matriculation training in SOLDIER has been focused on keeping a clean media face. The public is too stupid to care about your war crimes if you’re charming, and all that.” He draws a camera. 

Underneath the President, he draws another face. After writing _ VP _, he says, “Bastard Junior likes scaring people. He’s a lot less concerned with how ShinRa looks because he knows they’ve got so many people in their pockets. Now, Little Bastard, for whatever fucking reason, has the loyalty of the Turks.” The Turks are represented by little black smiley faces under the VP. 

“If we’re being technical, the Turks operate under my shitty boss, Hendeggy or whatever.” A green smiley face is connected to them with a dotted line. “He’s not a problem anymore. The thing is, Dipshit in Chief and his spawn run the Turks, right? If Baby Shithead gives an order, they’ll tend to that first—_if they can _. But! They know that they really need to listen to this guy if they want to keep their jobs. And if he’s worried about appearances...” 

“Then he’ll go over his kid’s head to clean things up?” Tifa guesses. 

Cloud nods at her, frantic with agreement. He draws a huge arrow from the black smiley faces to the round face up top. “It won’t fucking matter what’s happening here if his main people are otherwise occupied. It’ll give us an opening for doing what we need to do.” 

As Barret shakes his head, Wedge raises his hand, slowly. When everyone gives him patient looks, he lets out a wobbly laugh. “Um. What do we need to do?” 

Cloud’s face crumples. “I don’t know. Mess with their data, so they’re scrambling and we can strike? Beat them all up and hide them in a cellar until we’re done?”

“Won’t that be breakin’ some kinda law?” Barret asks, perplexed. 

Cloud waves a hand. “We’ve broken so many laws, Barret.”

“Crazy ass…” Barret grumbles, which makes Cloud smile.

Tifa clears her throat. Great, now everyone is looking at her. “I like the first idea, but, Cloud, didn’t you say they were trying to recruit you? Can you leverage that? I’m not sure how you can find out if they know you’re involved, but that might get you somewhere.” 

Cloud hums, and turns back towards the board. He writes, _ RENO LIKES ME :) _ . 

Barret cracks up. “Kid, I don’t even like you and we been workin’ together for like two and a half years.” 

It’s a lie. It’s a bald-faced lie. Judging by Cloud’s growing smile, he knows that. “Still… that’s a possible in.” 

Tifa almost regrets pointing it out. Cloud has a reckless streak that she hasn’t yet seen the end of. She turns to the younger kids. Even with only two years separating them, it feels like the three of them have an innocence that has been lost on her end. She suppresses the dark little laugh that rises in her chest—guess that’s what this kind of work does to you. She worries about them. “Do you guys feel comfortable being involved in this?” 

They answer her with a chorus of affirmatives. Cloud runs a hand through his hair. “If it were up to me, you guys wouldn’t be a part of this. But it was bound to come out, and I know you little nerds would have dug it up anyway.” He claps his hands. “I’ll guide you, alright?” 

So it’s decided. Tifa feels a strangely anticipatory nervousness about the whole thing. Cloud has been hinting at something big for a long time. Is this what starts it all?

\--

The next few days are tense. Whenever Cloud comes by the bar, he stops long enough to give her his customary kiss on the cheek and a murmured greeting, and then he gathers the Egg Heads and they get to work. Tifa knows very little about computers, even though she has learned a lot since they all made their way to Midgar. There just wasn’t much technology in Nibelheim—it’s why they spent so much of their time getting up to no good when they weren’t practicing under Zangan.

It helps that Aerith comes in as often as she can. They swap gossip and talk about the future, sometimes with Marlene between them, offering the hilarious commentary only kids seem to be capable of coming up with. Aerith seems brighter, these days. She’s always had a sadness lying just underneath, ever since they first met. Nowadays, Aerith will tuck Tifa’s hair behind her ears and say something absolutely ridiculous, or greet the quietest person by name, or come rushing in with a new flower (the result of a generous gift of seeds from her partner in the operation), and Tifa figures she’ll be just fine. She’ll do her best to make sure that it’s eventually true, in any case.

\--

Tifa has a rough time when Cloud’s work takes him far. Everyone who looks to him then turns their attention to her, as his de-facto right hand. Vincent does many things that are extremely vital, but he does most of those things from the shadows, sometimes continents away.

She and Cloud spent years with mostly each other for company, and though the move to Midgar and their work has built them an amazing base of friends and allies (and, most importantly, built Tifa’s confidence), it’s still difficult. Cloud, she thinks, was always destined for things like this. Big things, rallying people and solving a problem. Tifa is proud of her part in all of it, but sometimes she wonders if someone else couldn’t have taken her place, given a shift in circumstances. She is in charge of the records—she’s always had a talent for numbers, and she runs their budget and allocation of goods with a steady hand. Her work with 7th Heaven had her primed for this role. But is she not doing what any other clever person could do? 

Part of her still feels like the goofy preteen who was excited to wear wedge heels. It’s difficult to shake it. 

Her dad calls her every two weeks. “You should come home,” he says, at least once a conversation. Two birthdays, an endless rotation of under-the-table work he’d be scandalized to hear about, and he still thinks he can convince her to come home. 

Would he even recognize her? Can he not even recognize the change in her voice, her thoughts? Midgar has a way of toughening a person, and Tifa has always had a low tolerance for unfairness, which runs rampant in the city. The Tifa who spends most days in cargo pants and a tank top is far removed from the girl who’d tried to hide an incandescent temper beneath a practiced smile. She thinks her mother would understand, certainly. 

“No thanks, papa. Love you,” she’ll say. 

He’ll complain bitterly, and then deliver the gossip about the town. Same old, same old. There was a week where he’d been especially fired up about Cloud’s mother, first for her “affair,” and then for her abrupt exit, both things that had her cackling with laughter, much to his confusion. Cloud and Vincent can be the absolute worst. 

Is she sure she doesn’t want to come home, he’ll ask, one last push. She always refuses, even through the hesitation.

No matter her anxieties, there are people depending on her.

\--

The day begins quietly when Cloud and the Egg Heads finally release the leaks. Her usual patrons drop by for drinks. Some of them pick up assignments for the week—the latest big thing in Midgar has been undermining the Don. Honestly, the way Cloud attacked this particular assignment still seems a bit much, even to Tifa. She wonders if he did anything particularly annoying. The younger children run through her door with news of the town—Mrs. Nakamura and Johnny have been making good progress on their elixirs. Someone spotted a Turk, which was a brief cause of concern until it was confirmed they’re just tailing Aerith again. Tifa makes a note to visit her, offer some comfort. 

Barret brings Marlene down, and Tifa happily pulls her over the counter for help making the simpler, non-alcoholic stuff. Most people only want orange juice and toast in the mornings, anyway, and now that she’s got more help in the back, she can afford to indulge her this way. 

“Spikey and the chaps finally figured it out,” Barret says, around a sausage, “stuff’s going up today.”

Surprised, Tifa says, “I didn’t even know he came in!” 

Barret snorts. “You was sleepin’ when he came in with ‘em last night. I think they been down there ever since.” 

True to his word, Cloud and the Egg Heads arrive up top looking scruffy but victorious. Jessie’s not even bothering to contain her excited noises. Cloud gives them a grin that’s almost scarily toothy. “ShinRa’s ruined.”

From then on, it takes a while for things to really sink in. The leaks are apparently suppressed with swiftness from the more obvious channels, which they were anticipating. Cloud has the kids record evidence of this, and they share news of the suppression with the next wave of leaks. Tifa reads it all when she can, feeling horrified. Some of the jargon goes over her heads, and some of the conversation logs seem inane, but once more dedicated souls get their hands on it—namely, fans of more popular SOLDIERs, and representatives of government officials who have been snubbed by ShinRa one too many times—the picture becomes clearer and clearer. 

Their lines of communication are briefly cluttered with the outrage of their operatives, and those working within ShinRa corroborate. Tifa sees the Generals in a new light, in particular—understands why they’ve involved themselves. 

“ShinRa has a lot of news outlets in their pockets,” Cloud tells her and Aerith. 

They’re helping Aerith tend her gardens. She has been doing this on her own for years and doesn’t need their help, but both Tifa and Cloud recognize the request as a way to spend time with them, and indulge her when they can. Elmyra has taken to bringing them drinks and snacks. It feels strange, to talk of revolution with dirt and grass on their hands, their bellies full of lemonade and sugar cookies and crackers.

“So how’d you get past that?” Tifa asks. 

Cloud shrugs a shoulder. “Witness protection.” 

Aerith, voicing Tifa’s thoughts aloud, pinches him on the cheek and says, “You’re so weird.”

\--

There’s a section in the leaks on Hojo experimenting on an unnamed mother and her young daughter, both suspected to be Ancients. Aerith loses her coloring when they talk about it in the bar, and several things start making a lot of sense. Tifa hugs her until she stops shaking. Later, Cloud tells her that he truncated the whole truth of these leaks for safety.

“Is it true?” Tifa asks. 

Cloud looks incredibly sad when he says yes.

They have to do this, Tifa realizes. So many people can live in relative peace if they do this.

\--

No one is happy about ShinRa’s leaks. The President hosts a press conference about a week into the fallout. He’s red-faced and stiff, fields questions with a discriminate hand. When asked about the morality of his involvement in the Generals’ place in the Wutai war, he gives the flimsy excuse of, “It was for the betterment of all of us.” 

The General themselves are there, deliver speeches that are perfectly fine given the situation, but then General Rhapsodos gives the cameras a sardonic pause mid sentence, and General Sephiroth is caught giving General Hewley a rare look of commiserating amusement when he covers his face in exhaustion at a gutsy question, and some of the SOLDIERS assembled at the back in a show of support make faces that cannot be masked from the watchful eye of the media. The whole thing becomes a stomping ground for memes within hours. Thousands of edited photos and videos circulate online, in a stunning display of derisive frustration from the world. There are corners of the internet where people express their disdain for ShinRa with glee, but they are often forced to move to avoid complete shutdown. This time, there may truly be too much to suppress without being crazily obvious.

Several entities that have been lying dormant are energized into life, from human rights organizations to puppet governments. The whole of SOLDIER is urged to resign—their power is built on the backs of children who couldn’t consent, after all. What of Wutai? People want to know if ShinRa plans to apologize for their actions, or offer aid. The internet is particularly fascinated by news of the President’s many illegitimate children, including the director of SOLDIER himself, and a young boy living under the plate who is thankfully unnamed. Tifa wonders if the Vice President even knew about his siblings. There’s at least one on each major landmass, and only some of them are not the product of coercion. 

Many of the people who have been waffling about allying themselves with AVALANCHE’s cause are suddenly decided. It’s chaos. Tifa understands just how powerful that is. There are so many more things for ShinRa to worry about, now. She can only hope that Cloud knows what he’s doing. 

\--

ShinRa is holding a charity gala. 

Cloud is extremely bitter that attendance, for him, is necessary. He’s the student of a pretty well-known SOLDIER (and it still amazes Tifa that Zack has so many responsibilities. It’s difficult to reconcile the goofy flirt with someone so high in the chain of SOLDIER command), and has been earning recognition for his work in the field. 

Of course, he’s not content with simply attending and playing along. He all but demands Tifa be his date, and then promptly puts in a request to fund communication devices. They’re going to snoop on whoever they can, with Barret, the Egg Heads, and other AVALANCHE operatives listening in to record anything that sounds especially useful.

Tifa rarely spends time atop the plate. She has left Midgar a few times, usually with Vincent, to help him keep stock, or to meet with Cloud’s more colorful allies. The upper plate is designed precisely in grids, neat and boxy at the corners, so much more planned than the urbanized sprawl of the slums. The people stare. It even _ smells _ different. It feels like an entirely different world than anything else, reminds her a bit of the hall of the Aesir Cloud’s mother would speak about, in its glittering and performative opulence. Even dressed as nicely as she is, in a lovely dark green dress—which thankfully has pockets, Cloud knows her so well—Tifa feels out of place. 

Her biggest comfort is that they will not be alone. Hugo from the Honeybee is here, too, on the arm of one of Cloud’s SOLDIER friends. His is a unique beauty, and he’s identified many of the gala’s attendees as clients of his at one point in time, so they are hoping that he can weedle his way past their anxieties and learn a bit more. When they arrive, he smiles at them from across the room, she can see him press one hand up to his curls, just over his ear, and whisper, “_ This is a disaster. _” 

He sounds amused, though, so Tifa sends him a little grin. Cloud immediately leads them towards a table laid out with food. Tifa cannot help a little giggle at the ostentatiousness of the display. 

“What’s on your mind?” Cloud asks, stuffing his face with fancy cheeses. 

“Even their food looks like it’s putting on airs.” She explains. 

He grins and holds a fleshy white fruit up to her. She’s never seen anything like it before, but she obligingly takes a bite and gives an appreciative hum at its sweet taste. 

“Mangosteens from Wutai. Such irony, right?” Cloud mumbles. 

The amused look on his face rapidly tightens as a broad-shouldered SOLDIER takes notice of them and marches up to them. 

“Instructor Belk!” Cloud greets the man. 

“Shut up, I’m not your teacher anymore, you little punk.” Belk grunts at him. Then he turns to Tifa. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m here to warn you away. This one’s a nutcase. Gave me _ so _ much trouble as a cadet. Listen, I’ve got a daughter about your age...” 

Before she can answer, Cloud is wrapping an arm around her waist and ushering her away. “It’s too late, we’re childhood sweethearts, we’re madly in love, and we might be eloping soon!” 

Over the course of the night, several SOLDIERs approach them expressing similar sentiments—most are playful, save the passive-aggressive comments of a bright-eyed young man who Cloud apparently hates enough to block her from view. Zack rescues them at this point, clasping this Luxiere on the shoulder and dismissing him as charmingly as possible. 

“You two are a sight for sore eyes.” Zack tells them, wiggling his eyebrows appreciatively. 

Cloud shoves him, which he accepts with a laugh. The two of them look almost foreign in suits—Cloud’s plain black, Zack’s ridiculous, silky, pinstriped, and comfortably _ him. _

Zack wraps an arm around their shoulders and pulls them close. “Turks are on detail because the ShinRas are here. Reno’s been looking for you, Cloud.” 

With a rousing buzz, they can hear Hugo press his comms on for them to hear his conversation. Tifa casts her gaze around, and finds him speaking to Scarlet, the head of Weapons development. She’s flirting outrageously, and not really giving anything away—it’s Heidegger, who keeps needlessly inserting himself into their conversation, who is giving them all their tells.

“_ He could have asked for some of my troop. Not like he won’t need it, _” Heidegger says, when Hugo comments on the Turks standing over The President and Vice President’s shoulders.

Hugo says, “_ This whole thing has been a mess. It must be so difficult for you two. _” 

Tifa can see Scarlet toss her beautiful blonde hair over her shoulder. “_ It’s nothing. We’ll bounce back from it. Ambition is important for companies like ours. _” 

Heidegger says, “_ This company’s been falling apart at the seams! _” 

Tifa can see Scarlet angle her face his way. Whatever face she makes must fluster him—he makes a frantic gesture with his hands and takes off. 

“_ Oh, dear… _” Hugo murmurs, bringing a hand up to his mouth.

“_ Don’t worry about him, pet.” _

He masks a nervous gesture for cutting off his comms, which Tifa is grateful for. She does not want to hear one of the most evil women on the planet talk dirty.

The rest of the night is fairly uneventful. Tifa has a newfound appreciation for the work of a Honeybee. Hugo shares hearty laughs with disenchanted staff, and learns that ShinRa higher ups have been tense and unkind to those working under them. He flirts with former clients, who open up about their latest duties. So much damage control, they complain, as if they aren’t speaking of human lives. So troublesome, so frustrating. Even a Turk—and this one has to be new, or Tifa will eat her favorite boots—offers a stray comment on the Vice President’s “paranoia.” Hugo slips in and out of the personalities needed to accommodate each of them, and each time he feels safe enough to do so, he meets their gaze with a proud little smile.

Tifa meets several of Cloud’s comrades, who are very curious about her. She’s a little embarrassed by the envy in some of their roving gazes. Cloud, sensing this, drapes his blazer over her shoulders. Its warmth and familiar smell quiets the worst of it. 

As the evening is drawing to a close, she’s approached by a redheaded Turk. She recognizes him. She’s seen him following both Cloud and Aerith from an unsubtle distance. She’s sure he recognizes her, too—nobody gets into the Turks without being perceptive. Tifa searches for Cloud, and sees that he and Zack are speaking with the Generals, nursing drinks that none of them have even sipped. She’s more intimidated by the idea of staring General Sephiroth in the face, so she stays where she is, by the food. The Turk swaggers his way into her field of vision, and she realizes this was probably a deliberate approach.

“What’s up, doll?” 

“Hello…?” 

“Name’s Reno.” 

Ah. How did she not connect these dots? Cloud’s dismissal of this Turk’s potential for danger, his written declaration in headquarters, his hesitation. _ Reno likes me, _ he’d written. She rather thinks Cloud likes Reno. He gets fascinated by people and then they’re in his life whether they want to be or not. Tifa is one of the first people to find this out firsthand.

“Nice to finally meet you. Cloud talks about you a lot. I’m Tifa.” She takes the initiative and holds a hand out. 

Brows raised, he takes her hand and shakes it. They’re rough with calluses in odd places, and kind of cold. He has an oily quality to him, like he knows a punchline he won't share with you.

“That’s interesting, because he ain’t never told me about you.” 

The slums accent is strong with this one. Surrounded by the big wigs and high-society display as they are, she wonders if holding onto it isn’t a statement of some kind, like the faint Nibel accent Cloud hasn’t bothered to suppress. 

“Do you guys talk a lot?” 

He scoffs. “More than I want, anyway.” 

Tifa smiles. “Yeah, Cloud does that to you.” 

He gives her a crooked grin. Then he turns to the food, one hand in his pocket as he eats away at a plate of sweets under a sign that says _ Take Two Please _. Emboldened by this little act of rebellion, she reaches out and helps him finish off the plate. He’s surprisingly pleasant company, in his own off-color way. The only person in the room he doesn’t mock is the Vice President, who he avoids speaking about completely. Curious.

“Can I ask you something, Ms. Tifa?” He asks, around a mouthful of cupcake.

“Shoot,” she replies, fully expecting him to drop something scary at her feet. 

“What do you see in that bozo, anyway?”

Her reflexive response is to correct him on the status of their relationship, but something in his look gives her pause. So she picks up a flute of disgusting champagne and downs the whole thing, giving herself time to think. 

“Honestly, he can be so obnoxious! He likes making people mad—he’s told me this before, so he can’t complain about me saying that! And once he has an idea, it’s his way or the highway. But… there is so much love in Cloud. Everything he does, he does it for someone else. He’s the kind of person to lay out jackets on puddles for old ladies crossing the street, you know? He might call you names sometimes, but if he’s decided he cares about you, then you know he’s gonna do everything in his power to make sure you’re happy and safe. Cloud and I grew up together. My mom died when I was pretty young. Every time the anniversary comes around, it can be pretty difficult. The first year after we became friends, he baked me a cake and made me a little coupon book with just the most awful drawings.” 

Tifa is giggling now, over the memory of it. She still has that little book, still cashes in on the services within. She wishes, absurdly, that she’d brought it to show it off. Reno is watching her intently. She reaches for a nearby grape and pops it into her mouth. This earns her a disapproving frown from a woman across the table, so Tifa reaches down and takes another grape.

“And they were for things like, ‘free backrub!’ or ‘spar for as long as you want!’ or ‘i’ll leave you alone!’ and there was one that just said ‘whatever you want.’ So I asked him to show me something he’d never shown me before. Cloud was always taking me on these weird little adventures, you know? So he decided to show me how to knit. We skipped school and just spent hours knitting. I wasn’t very good at it. By the end of the day I had a bunch of little socks and bags and mittens. While we worked, he asked me to tell him about my mom. Nothing too grand. But it’s one of my favorite memories. That’s just the kind of person he is.” 

She hopes it makes sense. Reno, after a beat of silence, nods at her. She thinks he gets it. 

Cloud inserts himself into their shared space, popping the odd bubble surrounding them. He gives Reno one of his genuine smiles. “What’s up, scoundrel?”

Reno rolls his eyes. “Nothing much, asshole.” 

“I heard you’ve been looking for me.” Cloud presses on, unashamedly filling a little bowl (where did he even get it from?) with leftovers. 

“Yeah. We gotta talk.” Reno says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Whatever they talk about leaves Cloud in a contemplative silence for the rest of the night. Tifa can only hope that it was good news.  
  


4.

Cloud Strife still reaches out to Reno after he refuses the Turks’ offer. 

Before he realizes it, Reno starts thinking that he’d consider the little shit a friend if the circumstances were different. For all that Cloud is fairly laconic in person, he will talk talk talk in other lines of communication, if given the chance. A favorite point of conversation for him is the goings-on of the slums. Don Corneo fucked up here, some weirdos have been forming gangs in this or that Sector, things like that. Cloud will reach Reno through his number or his email—both things that change periodically, for security reasons—and engage him in a meandering conversation that rarely has a point. Cloud tells him amusing gossip from the SOLDIER side of things. He tells anecdotes of the assistants on the Generals’ floor. He talks about his fellow cadets, who has potential and who is just a turd and a bully.

Any information, no matter how mundane, has a use for the Turks. Reno stores it all. He wonders if the kid even knows he’s an informant. Regardless, he had no idea so many SOLDIERs were cheating on their spouses.

\--

_ what are ur thoughts on fiends, _ Cloud texts him once, when Reno is out on assignment in the Northern Crater. 

_ wat _

_ i said WHAT ARE UR THOUGHTS ON FIENDS _

Reno, confused, tells him _ a nuisance, y _

The target he was sent after is whimpering underneath his boot. Reno brings his EMR to life with a flick of his thumb, presses it to the underside of the guy’s chin, and does not stop until the shudders rolling through his body weaken. Cloud has sent him a number of links in the meantime.

They’re all about fiend activity as related to the ever-changing mako cycle. Reno reads them thoroughly, and then forwards them to Tseng. The articles are swiftly taken down. 

Reno thinks of it whenever he runs into fiends near reactors.

\--

They’re all punished for it when Rufus is attacked in the streets. Such a thing might be expected, were he in the slums, but Rufus has not spent a single moment of his life underneath the plate. Reno hears through the grapevine that Rufus was enjoying a walk with Dark Nation, his Turk detail trailing out of sight as per his request, and within the space of moments he’d been flat on his back, his pet frozen in a rare display of fear. Camera records of this day are doctored, Rufus apparently holds whatever his assailant told him stubbornly to his chest, and he immediately launches a dress down of ShinRa’s many branches in the city.

He is never truly alone—he’s far too important for that. Protecting Rufus ShinRa takes planning and coordination and communication. Regardless of the attacker’s abilities, it is on them all that Rufus’ safety was even momentarily compromised.

Reno doesn’t hate paperwork. He never has, for all that he enjoys giving Tseng a hard time about it. After the twentieth report on sketchy secretaries and “untrustworthy” employees (those whose attention is not solely with the company), he starts to reconsider. 

\--

When that kid kicks Rude, things take an abrupt change.

“AVALANCHE is onto something,” Rude says, and then he takes it to the higher ups because that’s just the kind of employee he is. 

Reno is of the mind that the fun part of their work comes in solving the problems that aren’t necessary to draw attention to. Having a grateful boss is always more helpful than an entitled one. You want them to feel thankful they have you, not assured that they can use you.

Will Reno always appreciate ShinRa for plucking him off of the streets? Of course. No kid deserves a childhood like his had been. But will he allow them to think they own him? Never. 

Still, he plays Rude’s game, mostly to sate his own curiosity. Reno spends what free time he has in plain clothes, stuffing his hair under a beanie cap. He buys simple makeup and conceals his tattoos, and brown contacts.

Reno spends hours practicing an approximation of Elena’s accent in his mirror. She has that almost sing-songy tone of voice particular to people born and raised on top of the plate. Reno is fascinated to find that its emergence is a unique and unprecedented thing, something observed with religious intensity by linguists around the globe. It has always grated on Reno. It doesn’t matter how you dress, if you come under the plate with that lilt you’re a prime target for sticky fingers, and it can be astonishing how people leave themselves open. 

Reno has had a talent for copying things from a young age—voices, sounds, mannerisms. It’s what had attracted Tseng to him in the first place as a Turk candidate. He’d been caught pretending to be someone else at the drop-off point for black-market goods, taking whatever stock landed at his feet and selling it to make a profit. Turned out one of those black-market vendors was one of Tseng’s informants. He’d been caught out, and the rest was history. The Turks or death, most likely, but it wasn’t like whatever living he was eking out was really living anyway.

The first test is interesting. He just trolls around underneath the plate—stopping at stores, engaging in conversation with people who are a lot less tetchy than they were a handful of years ago, generally making an announcement of his presence. With a dummy wallet in his pocket, an expensive watch on his wrist, and assorted jewelry, he’s easy pickings. By the time the day is over, only the watch is gone. Pretty much anything else on his person could have been a target. 

The second test is a little more difficult. Reno watches people. He has breakfast, lunch, and dinner at different restaurants under the plate in his simple disguise, and spends the time in-between making sure that he’s got eyes on something. It’s not easy to eavesdrop on conversation. Idle hands in the slums has been a red flag for as long as he can remember, and people seem especially leery of it now, meeting his lulls in words and searching eyes with their own, expectant and challenging. It had been one thing to experience some differences as a Turk—surges of discontent are extremely common in Midgar. Rude had cited increased camaraderie as a source for his interest, and he has a point, to an extent. At the end of the day, a slum rat will help a slum rat, whether or not they have the same job or speak the same language. But he is right in that the levels of it all are unprecedented. 

He doesn’t think Don Corneo has realized he hasn’t had a real stronghold in the slums for some time, now. He’d been Heidegger’s hire, and just like the man who brought him in, his usefulness is running short. Half of the people who work for him have their attention divided. Hired muscle with no particular loyalties are enticed into work with AVALANCHE. Their leader, that Barret, is not as subtle as he could be, even though he has been improving. AVALANCHE has never been subtle. Their work has been rooted in loud scare tactics since even its first incarnation. They’ve still been protesting, interrupting check points and daily commutes of middling ShinRa employees, leaving their graffiti wherever they please. 

But they’re organized. They’re scarily organized. It takes so much digging to figure it out that it pisses Reno off. 

“How do you know?” Rude asks, leading as always.

He thinks it helps Reno to speak his ideas aloud, like he’s a caring teacher and their work is a class for reluctant learners instead of the snuff operation it really is. So Reno says, “They’re not fucking dead.” 

“Good work,” Rude says. 

AVALANCHE has huge collateral. Anyone who signs on to the cause knows there’s a high chance that they, or a loved one, or a neighbor, or even the fucking paperboy, has a chance of dying as a result of their work. It’d been in their manifesto at some point, when that was a thing they publicly circulated, that losing the lives of a few to further the at-large cause was an expected and necessary component of success. And that is why AVALANCHE never lasts long when it kicks up. 

This incarnation of AVALANCHE is almost three years old. 

\--

It’s when Reno doesn’t hear from Cloud for a few months that he starts to wonder. The SOLDIER cadets get their break around this time, so it should be easy to dismiss, but it bothers him.

Rain or shine, Cloud will bother him every two weeks with a flurry of questions and rambling thoughts and pictures of the stupidest things. He can swing from the extreme of _ if there were two guys on the moon and one of them killed the other with a rock would that be fucked up or what _ to _ have many thoughts on how far people will go to come in to work early for bosses that would replace them before the day is out if they died _but regardless he’s always got something to share, and Reno will give it all honest thought whether he likes it or not. 

Reno does not reach out. He will not be the one who does that. He has learned, however, that it takes a lot to break creatures of habit from what is familiar, and Cloud is nothing if not clockwork. 

When Cloud is gone, AVALANCHE ramps up its efforts. Confusingly equipped much better than they should be, they disarm a regular sweep of Don Corneo’s men, which is a point of giddy gossip for days. There are several gaps in logs for the trainline, indicating illegal rides. AVALANCHE’s graffiti is found and regularly removed, and then there is a huge upset about its reemergence in the form of moss. Moss graffiti takes weeks to grow and cultivate, and there is very little plant life in Midgar that isn’t imported. Reno knows at least one person in all of Midgar who could have helped move it along. Clever girl. 

\--

The President, who has always been unnaturally focused on erasing AVALANCHE once and for all, is so vindicated by Rude’s “confirmation” of his suspicions that he orders even more focus on them. None of the junior Turks are happy about being made to increase their presence under the plate. Very few people enjoy Turk work. They are all good at it, and varying degrees of loyal to the company, but doing their kind of work eats away at an essential part of what makes ordinary people want to reach out and build villages to raise children in. 

There’s also the recent issue of the boldness of Midgar’s people, lately. The Turk suit used to grant you a personal bubble almost a mile wide. Now, it’s almost like a target. 

\--

Cloud reaches out to him again once he’s accepted into the SOLDIER program. 

_ if we get put on a mission together just know i’m telling everyone we’re pals _ _  
_ _ say goodbye to ur street cred nerd _ _  
_ _ anyway. lunch, my treat? word on these gilded streets is i’ve got a sexy new blood money salary to look forward to _

Reno doesn’t tell him that he’s sure the only people who earn more than the Turks are the Generals, the executive board, and the President himself. He accepts. His father always said free food was the best food. 

It becomes habit to eat together whenever their sporadic schedules align. It’s always Reno’s choice. He always picks places with outrages prices, just to see when Cloud will snap. 

(He never does.)

\--

Sector 8 is a hated assignment. General Rhapsodos was there often for viewings of LOVELESS, before his time in Wutai, and now that he has returned, he’s picked the habit up again. Junior Turks hate running into him, because he always has something especially unkind to say. 

As the newest set-in-stone member of the Turks, Reno is forced to sit in on weekly meetings of supervision, which he usually hates. However, it’s hilarious to see Cissnei chew the recruits out in that sweet, backhanded way only she is capable of.

\--

The President is livid when news gets out of Professor Hojo’s death. Nobody is happy about this. The old rat promised ShinRa many things, and for all that there wasn’t a soul on the Planet that enjoyed him, no one can argue that he wasn’t brilliant. There is a lot of his work that simply isn’t something that can be replicated—for one, his plans for the Promised Land. 

“Stupid, idiotic, rookie mistake,” Rufus tells them over dinner, looking worse than Reno has ever seen him. 

Tseng all but raised Rufus. It’s the reason the both of them can balance being so irritating with a slimy kind of big-city charm. Reno knows very little of the director’s past, but he’s certain he’s been with the company for most of his adult life and maybe a little before. Reno has no idea how old he is—black and brown people just don’t ever seem to age the same way as everyone else.

Reno wonders what Tseng has learned about Rufus’ relationship with the President, over the years. Probably nothing good, because while he normally maintains a diplomatic silence in the face of every criticism of his higher ups with dedication, he has been downright conciliatory toward Rufus lately. 

“You’ll be able to make up for it, Vice President.” Tseng soothes. 

The narrow look Rufus shoots his way is an obvious indication of his disbelief, but he says nothing.

\--

They are unable to suppress the leaks in full, and Reno is certain of one thing. It’s not AVALANCHE.

AVALANCHE may be emboldened and involved, but this isn’t them. This isn’t the style of their current leader, or even remotely reminiscent of the styles of its former leaders.

“Kill them all!” The President bellows, after a disastrous meeting of the board. His face is about as red as his characteristic suit, and he’s trembling so badly that the normally impeccable set of his hair is disrupted. “Do everything you can to get rid of those terrorist rats for good!” 

So they set about damage control. 

Attempting to move the records is, at this point, highly improbable, if not impossible outright. Reno has no doubt people have printed out that which interests them the most. Their lockdown had been successful for all of a week, before the leaks had returned in full force. If necessary, they can enforce harsher censorship, and while shutting Midgar’s internet is not out of their means, little can be done about the world over. And the world over is watching. 

There isn’t much the Turks do not have access to; much of this is old hat for Reno, something he has actualized and processed and dismissed for his own piece of mind, only accessed in restless sleep. But there is something he cannot stop thinking about.

It’s a brief report about advertisements in the slums for assistance with sickness or debilitating poverty, in exchange for participation in medical trials. Flyers, placed strategically in areas of high traffic for maximum visibility. Those who reached out were enticed into the Science Department, and never heard from again. Reno’s initial reaction is the righteous fury of any slum kid—why be so gullible? Why turn yourself over to the people who were happy to have you under their boot? It passes quickly—he’d been that gullible kid, once upon a time, had been burnt by the risk of trust and desperation. It’s hard to think straight when your stomach is empty—it’s doubly difficult if yours is not the only one that needs feeding, and maybe one of you is sick, and it feels like there are more than twenty-four hours in a day. 

Reno has seen and heard worse in his line of work. He has killed and beaten and tortured and seduced and blackmailed. He has enjoyed some of it. He has buried the rest. It’s not enough to call sensitivity on something so mild, when compared to the rest. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, anyway. He rubs the burn out of his chest with a grimace and moves on. 

\--

It is, oddly enough, Deputy Mayor Hut that confirms a few things in Reno’s mind. 

For years, Mayor Domino has been bitterly spending his days all but locked into his office, crunching numbers and shooting the shit with his Deputy. Everyone working in the higher floors views him with this mix of pity and dark amusement, because they know they are at least partly responsible for the obsolete nature of his job, and mostly because they don’t care enough to do anything about it. Only Director Tuesti, who has always been freakishly good-natured to be working for ShinRa, ever speaks to him with regularity and respect. 

Reno, who often struggles with boredom when making uneventful rounds, has made a habit of stopping outside of Mayor Domino’s office door to listen to him talk. He’s not subtle. He complains about President ShinRa’s dirty work, about Professor Hojo’s roaming experiments and their direct correlation with his lack of sleep, about the wife who left him, any little thing. There’s no need to wheedle for unbiased news when you’ve got Mayor Domino on a verbal tear, because while he is self-centered, very little of what he says is untrue.

(Of Rufus’ attack, he’d said, “Serves him right!” right before launching into a tirade about how irritating it was to have to cajole his team into agreeing to background checks to avoid Turk aggression.

Of AVALANCHE’s graffiti, he’d said, “Lovely designs, I like their little slogans. They ought to make an effigy of our illustrious leader and burn it next.” 

Of Professor Hojo’s death, he’d laughed.)

It’s the quieter moments that Reno pays heed to. Domino and Hut will say, “Did you get the latest message?” or “Looks like there’s no assignment for today.” or, lately, they’ll wonder at why “the bossman” is so stuck up on procuring one piece of equipment or another. Reno does not put all his eggs into his basket, even though a hunch is telling him he should. 

First, neither the mayor or the deputy mayor ever refer to President ShinRa with any affection or respectability outside of the presence of other ShinRa employees. Second, the things this “bossman” wants slingshot wildly outside of any pattern. They’re briefly perplexed at the need for materia reaching the end of its use, and helplessly amused at the need for a brand of cigarettes that can only be found on the Western Continent. The bossman wants textbooks on physics. The bossman needs mulch. The bossman says not to ever look into that company for gunpowder ever again because he’s still trying to clean his hair. What! Why would the bossman ever need so many napkins? They hope he recycles 

It’s this sentence in particular that gives him pause: “The bossman says we should visit for dinner tonight.” 

Deputy Mayor Hut snickers. “That kid’s always trying to feed people.” 

Just that gives Reno so much to chew on. Kid? What could a young person possibly do to gain the respect of tetchy old codgers like them? Certainly more than regular meals. 

Feeling like he’s on the verge of something, Reno raps his knuckles against the door, and presses his ear against the door to assess the fallout. There’s a sharp exhalation of breath, and a great shuffling of papers. They hiss lowly at each other, cursing and dismissing aborted statements of “But—” and “What if…?”

Then, Mayor Domino says, “Come in!” 

Reno turns the knob, leaning against the door to let his slight weight push it open slowly. Their already tense faces tighten at the sight of him. 

“Hello, Mr. Turk!” 

“Wassup, bossman?” Reno asks, watching intently as the Mayor only _ just _ fails to hide his nervous jerk. He pretends he doesn’t see it, but makes note of the sagging relief in his shoulders. 

“How can we help you?” Deputy Mayor Hut is saying, his hands clasped tightly together at his front. 

“Just wanted to stop by, make sure you didn’t need anything, ya know. I got stuck with the shit job tonight and I’m bored outta my mind.” He explains. He’d learned to be a better liar by miring his lies in mostly truths.

“We don’t need anything, thank you! We’ve got everything we need. Everything.” And then, even through his obvious nervousness, Mayor Domino _ smiles _. 

Huh.

\--

“What would you want to be if you weren’t a Turk?” Cloud asks, over lunch. 

“That ain’t something I’ve given much thought, Blondie. What about you?” 

He doesn’t even have to think about it. “I want some chocobos, a white picket fence, and peace and quiet.” 

Reno shakes his head in amusement. The waitress flits back over to their table and asks if they’d like desert. Cloud declines, but does not argue when Reno tells her to bring him whatever is most expensive. She’d quickly recognized them as ShinRa employees (Cloud’s glowing eyes, Reno’s rumpled but characteristic suit) and has been hovering ever since.

“You got it all figured out, huh?” 

Cloud looks out of the window, eyes on the city. “I wouldn’t say that.” 

“But you got a plan.” 

“I think you’d make an excellent actor, Reno.” 

Reno waves a hand. “Man, you get on my fucking nerves.” 

Cloud’s smirking, but there’s an earnestness in his expression. That scares Reno a little bit, though he’ll never admit it. It’s supposed to be his job to read people.

There his answer is, though. There it is. It’s not AVALANCHE.

\--

Reno does not say anything about what he knows for a long time.

\--

“I know what you’re up to.” Reno tells Cloud, during the charity gala. 

It’d been a tense elevator ride down HQ’s many floors, away from the event’s complaining execs and tired looking SOLDIERs and Cloud’s gorgeous friend. Stepping outside of the main doors to the acerbic tang of light pollution and mako fog is more his element. 

Cloud just nods at him. He’s still chewing on whatever final piece of bird food he picked up from the bar. “You going to say anything?”

“Nah,” Reno says, surprised with his own answer. He’d been planning on making him sweat a bit—giving it a few days, just to get payback for all of the pranks he’d endured, and maybe to soothe the weird frustration he feels at not being told about it. 

“Can I count on you?” Cloud asks, erasing it completely. 

“Don’t call in any favors that are going to get me fired.” 

“Reno, my goal is to put you out of a job completely.” Cloud whispers. 

Reno tsks. 

Cloud roots around in the pockets of his blazer. He lets out a victorious little noise, and waves a carton of cigarettes at Reno. He’d been strictly prohibited from bringing his own on account of appearances. They will never be able to make him button his shirt, but even he knows when not to cross a line. The carton Cloud has brought with him is Banora White flavored, a limited edition line from Midgar’s biggest brand. “You should really quit, but. I figured you wouldn’t be having a good time here tonight.” 

He gives Reno the carton. Reno puts a stick into his mouth mostly for comfort, but then Cloud snaps his fingers and brings a little flame to life above his fingers. There has to be a materia bangle somewhere on his person, but Reno doesn’t see one. Jumping his brows in acceptance, Reno leans in. Once the initial plume of smoke passes, Cloud has taken three steps back.

“Yeah, well. Final warning, blondie,” Reno says, addressing their earlier conversation, “we may be distracted, but we still have jobs. Keep your people on lock. You trot them out in front of me and I gotta do something. You all are sneaky, but not that sneaky.” 

Cloud laughs in his face. “My people are on lock. You’re just too smart for your own good.” 

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that. Might wanna reconsider on Mayor Domino, though.”

“Gaia, was he what set you off?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Reno mumbles, breathing in a long, soothing pull of cancerous chemicals. 

He blows the smoke in Cloud’s face. The brat has the nerve to just sit there and accept it, because he never does what anyone expects him to.

  
  


**5.**

For the most part, Aerith’s flowers are buttercups. She’d found out the hard way, as a child—had been overtaken with curiosity about their taste and then promptly suffered the consequences. She’s sure now that only her blood saved her. Elmyra had bought her a book on botany and dog-eared the section on buttercups as a silent warning. Genesis’ gift of seeds has expanded her garden more than she ever could have hoped. It fills her with a quiet pride, seeing the multicolored evidence of her garden expanding further than she ever thought possible.

“Aerith, do you know that wherever you spend a lot of time, flowers start popping up?” 

“I do,” she says, wincing. “It’s always been like that.” 

Cloud laughs at her, rolls his sleeves up to his elbows to give himself more leeway to weed. Even with the scars littering his skin, he looks cozy and down-home in his button up and overalls, bare feet curling into the dirt below. Hard to believe he’s someone capable of doing as much as he has, and it’s especially hard to reconcile the story the unmistakable mako glow of his eyes tells with the boy who will probably do anything she asks him to. They make brief eye-contact, the Planet’s restless murmur kicks up intensely, and she averts her gaze with a little laugh.

“Why are you embarrassed? Don’t be. Have you ever thought about just stomping around 7th Heaven thinking, ‘tomatoes, tomatoes?’ Tifa’s always complaining about how expensive they are to have sent in.” She can hear the smile in his voice.

“Agh, shut up, you,” Tifa says, veering towards him so she can shove at his back. Her gloves leave big tan hand prints on the back of his shirt, and she bites her lip. “Sorry, I’ll wash it.” 

“Unhand me, woman,” Cloud grumbles, and then he turns around to wrap his arms around her thighs, lifting her clear off the ground. Tifa’s regret is erased immediately, replaced by her instinct to play fight. The shriek of laughter that leaves her is precious, as is the sight of her flailing hands. 

Aerith grins, bending down to inspect her work. Her personal garden is a large, unruly thing, and while she’s been content tending to it on her own all these years, the company is nice. 

“Don’t roll into my flowers or I’ll punch you both!” She says, only half joking. 

She can hear their scuffle come to an immediate halt, and hides her smile by sticking her nose into the nearest patch of flowers. She’s good with magic but she could never cause either of them any real pain. Their respect for her, though, makes her stomach feel fluttery with pleasure rarely found in her daily life until they crashed into her life.

A good amount of time has passed before she hears Tifa let out a little hum. “You’ve never told me where these came from.” 

Aerith glances over her shoulder, and she can see that Tifa is brushing a hand over the scars littering his arm. Some are uniform, others irregularly placed, all of them look like the wound they originated from was probably painful.

Cloud gives her a humorless smile. “You’d think the mako would have healed them up, but now I'm stuck with ‘em.”

“But where did they come from?” Tifa insists, taking his wrist so she can examine them closely. 

“Me not being careful enough.” 

“You mean when you were up in the mountains?” Tifa presses. 

She can’t be touching them with much pressure, but Cloud flinches regardless as he nods in assent. Tifa huffs and flicks his forehead. Then she gives him a brief squeeze, mumbling about how she wishes he’d just asked her to join him. He rubs her back.

He looks at Aerith over her shoulder, and shakes his head in a motion so small she almost misses it.

\--

She still meets Genesis at the theatre sometimes, when they aren’t working together. They talk politics, and though she is embarrassed that she genuinely knows little of it all, he laughingly assures her that this was deliberate.

“How are things?” He asks, after a show.

His question catches Aerith off guard. She is still processing the play, eyes hungrily taking in the cast as they dip into a bow, grinning through the applause. Every time she watches Loveless, she leaves it feeling more vulnerable than she did walking in. There are parts of it that speak to her, others that frustrate and confuse. It’s beautiful, but she can’t say with honesty that she likes it. She does like Genesis’ passion for it, and his running commentary—especially when he speaks of interpretations rooted in theory on the Ancients.

“Um, well. I don’t rightly know? I think you would say,” she plants her feet dramatically apart, putting her fists on her hips, “Change is in the air.” And then she deflates into her chair. “But I don’t know if it’s good change or bad change, and I don’t like it.” 

Genesis nods his understanding. Taking this particular balcony place has become something of tradition for them—gossip about Genesis being spread among his fanclub is one thing, but they risk the safety of more than just themselves if they are ever photographed together. The staff adore Genesis and are generally sweet-tempered, so they are given a lot of leeway and choice. 

“I feel much the same,” he says, face unreadable as he stares at the tiny world below them. 

“Hey, Genesis? If something happens to me, will you make sure my mom is alright?” She’s a little sheepish about the way the question bursts out.

He seems surprised. “Of course, but whyever do you think I’d allow this situation to deteriorate to the point that she’ll need my protection?” 

Aerith breaks out into a grin. She’s heard similar sentiment from her friends (and it still feels so lovely to think that she has that, people who care for her not because they are obligated to) in moments of worry, a playfully insulted correction of her place in their lives. For them it is never a question of her safety or happiness, because they are committed to ensuring both, and hadn’t ever considered an alternative until she brought it up. 

“Are we friends, Genesis?” She teases, giggling at his deadpan look. 

“More like you are my shackle. Watch yourself, miss.” He sniffs.

Inordinately pleased, she ducks her head. 

“I can see this means a lot to you. Yes, your mother is safe with me. So are you.” 

She doesn’t need to make eye contact to take in the truth of this, and is afraid to show him her wet eyes regardless.

\--

Cloud asks, “You ever been outside of Midgar?”

“Not to my memory.” There’s no telling what happened those years under Hojo’s thumb. Half of it is a haze of memories buried for her peace of mind.

“Wanna have a trip? Just you, me, and Tifa.” He offers, kicking at the ground. 

A gaggle of teen boys shuffle up to her flower cart, and when she smiles at them they blush and mutter about how they’d like some bouquets for their loved ones. Aerith weighs her options as she begins to assemble some for them. The boys watch her with wide eyed interest, expressing an amusing amount of awe at the way she picks flowers at what looks like random, twists rubber bands and then ribbons around them, neatly tying bows. It’s all muscle memory now. 

The thought of seeing the sky makes her stomach drop with fear. There’s so much of it, a wide stretch that she’s never properly seen in her life. There’s also dread building up in her stomach at the thought of all the things that could go wrong. The Turks will not react well to her leaving Midgar. Elmyra could be in danger. No one will be there to tend to her flowers. 

Aerith’s biggest fear is that she will leave this city—smell the air of the world, feel the grass beneath her feet and the warmth of the sun—and never want to come back. 

“Where did you have in mind?” She asks, waving goodbye to the teens as they walk off, holding their flowers as if they will explode.

“I have a week off coming up. There’s a chocobo farm a little farther east that I thought you’d like...” 

Aerith would like to think she has become a bit better at reading Cloud, but in hindsight she’s probably only ever read what he wants her to read. She knows the works, things you just pick up in the ambiance of time spent with a friend, but despite their closeness she’s convinced there is so much about Cloud that will never see the light of day. At his look, she’s surprised to realize he’s hesitant to ask her this. 

“I’m scared,” she tells him, deciding to be honest even though it smarts. 

“I’m not gonna say ‘don’t be’, but will it help if I get some things sorted out? I have a favor I can call in.” 

She lets out a breath of relief. “That would help a bunch.” 

Getting some things sorted out takes a few days, actually, but then Cloud texts her _ pack some clothes we’re leaving this dust bowl. _ She’s about to tell him that she doesn’t have anything to pack with, but he quickly follows up with a _ wait i have a suitcase sry tifa will bring it to you and help you pack _

And despite her mother’s tearful worry, Aerith gives her a flurry of kisses on her face, and leaves Midgar. They take Vincent’s awful truck (which Cloud insists he no longer has any use for), take the under-plate highway out, and they’re gone. She’s fascinated by the tunnels, the gassy smell of other cars, the lights and the signs and colors, pushing out in a wind like a vein from the heart of the city. The three of them are small enough to all fit up front, Aerith in the middle, inordinately pleased by the warmth of thighs pressed into hers from either side. Cloud drives one-handed, his chin propped up on the knuckle of the other hand, and Tifa props her feet up onto the dashboard to serve as a table for the book she’s going to read, some incredibly dry treatise on martial arts with lingo that Aerith can’t even begin to decipher. 

She can feel the earth tilt as they move up, and the mouth of the tunnel is approaching rapidly. The moment the light of the sky breaks through their surroundings, Aerith winces. Noticing the tears springing into her eyes, Tifa worriedly asks if she’s alright. It is bright—brighter than the artificial daylight of the slums, and intense enough to sting just a little bit. There’s no explaining the sob building in her throat, though. 

“Sorry, it’s just that it’s all so—so bright.” Aerith tells her. 

It’s a lot different from the paltry sunlight that shines into her church. _Worlds_ different.

“Oh, honey,” Tifa tuts, dog-earing her book so she can pull Aerith close. 

Cloud says nothing, but when he lays his hand palm up on her lap she clutches it, crying until the wave of confusing emotions passes through her and peters out on its own. 

“Sorry,” Aerith croaks. 

Tifa gently pushes her back, blessedly and endearingly unbothered by how Aerith has been snotting all over her shirt. “What’s there to be sorry for?” 

When another tear falls, Tifa wipes it away with her thumb. There’s sympathetic tears in her eyes, but they don’t fall. Cloud wraps an arm around Aerith’s shoulders, and Tifa loops one of her arms around her to pull her close, and everything makes sense. 

The drive is not especially long, but it feels like an eternity. She’ll probably have a crick in her neck when she sleeps tonight, with the way she cranes it this way and that, taking everything in: endless stretch of blue before her, the way the industrial aftermath of Midgar fades to yellow grass and then green. She asks to have the windows down, and then the way the wind hits her ears is vexing and confusing, so they leave them cracked. She smells a strange tang of salt before they make their way up a hill and then she can see a wide river behind a settlement of tall, slender buildings.

“Wait, Cloud, I want to, hold on—stop please?” She asks, squeezing his hand. 

Raising a brow, Cloud pulls over, and when they all get out the first thing she does is shuck her boots and socks and plant her feet in the grass. She crouches down, then she sits, and then she stretches out onto her back. The whisper of the breeze brings so many things, makes her feel energized in a way she’s never experienced. It’s like she can feel the presence of the Planet pressed against her back, against the other side of the earth below, straining to meet her.

Cloud and Tifa sprawl beside her on either side, feet bare in solidarity. 

“Is it what you thought it’d be like?” Cloud asks. 

“It’s so much more! I want to go everywhere.” She answers. 

Tifa rolls close, puts her head on Aerith’s shoulder. “Baby steps, huh?” 

“Excuse you, I think I just took very adult steps!” Aerith huffs. 

After a few moments spent breathing the world in and trading words on any little thing, they make their way back to the car, and Aerith experiences a place unlike anything she’s ever seen. The cobblestone streets are a deep blue, the stalwart street lights as decorative as they are useful. Though Kalm is leagues smaller than even the largest sector in Midgar, it has enough personality that she’s deeply charmed hours in. 

There isn’t much to do because it is a small town, but it’s a different place regardless, and when the sun begins to set and paint the sky purples and oranges and reds, they watch until it fades and then dance under the soft glow of streetlights. It feels good, this—to be young and aimless, not fearing much, in the company of people she loves dearly. Cloud and Tifa arrange her until she’s pressed between the two of them, and they all step duck-footed in little circles, laughing and humming whatever tune that comes to mind. Later, when they settle at the Inn, Aerith takes the bed closest to the window. This is the first time in a long time that she has seen stars.

“I brought camping gear,” Cloud tells her. 

He’s got an especially contemplative look on his face as the three of them observe the sky from the open windowsill. 

Tifa laughs, reaching around Aerith to push gently at his arm. “Camping around here will probably be a lot less hostile than on the mountain, I bet.” 

“I’m gonna miss eating bugs,” He jokes, miming wiping tears from his eyes. 

And Aerith has the brief, nonsensical thought that she’d love to do that. She wants to do every little thing that the rest of the world has been enjoying while she grew her flowers in fear.

They do camp, later, and it’s awful and uncomfortable and warm in a distinctly damp way she’s unused to, but she enjoys it regardless—cherishes the mosquito bites and the fireflies and every shifting crawling creature in between. She points out flowers she has never seen before, and Tifa promptly begins to press them in the combat book she brought with her. 

“I’ll give it to you when we get back,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear, “you can find this kind of book in literally any weapons shop.” 

From there, they make their way to the chocobo farm, and Aerith bursts into tears when the large birds fall into a practiced little dance at Cloud’s prompting. It’s not uncommon to see them in the city, but Midgar’s kept chocobos are so often underfed, tired things, prone to mischief as is their wont, but displaying none of their trademark bright-eyed cheer. She draws the line at taking a ride—for all her delight she is somewhat intimidated by their size—but pets several plump chicks about the size of her torso. The three of them end the day covered in hay and grass stains, but the family in charge of the farm are kind folk, offer some blankets for them to bed down in the truck with. 

Cloud and Tifa are helpless with laughter over the memory of their first trip to Midgar, with Vincent and Freida stuck into the back of a transport truck under some tarp. They take turns sharing the tale with her as they get comfortable, laying down any item that is reasonably soft first, then a blanket, and then another, and they all settle in using their bags as makeshift pillows. 

“Vincent kept rolling around because Freida was biting him!” Tifa giggles, braiding her hair for the night. 

“Rotisserie shithead,” Cloud snorts, sending them all back into another fit of laughter on the tail end of a weakening bought. 

“We stopped for a checkpoint once, you remember—”

“Gods, yeah, his hand,” 

Tifa thrusts a fist into the air. “The first thing we see is his clawed hand and he just goes,” and here she pitches her voice as lowly as possible, “ ‘Children. Have we arrived?’ “

They’re all loose-limbed with hysteria. Aerith's knees are made of jelly: she'd been in the middle of trying to right herself, but another shudder of laughter has her falling face first into their blankets. Tifa and Cloud pat her back as they sputter over her head, and when she looks up she can see their faces are as red as hers feels. It is so rare for Aerith to hear either of them laughing like this. Tifa, for all her self-assuredness in some things, is quite shy. Cloud is Cloud. She hopes that everything they are all fighting for will give them the room to laugh this freely again.

\--

When she returns to Midgar, she suffers the worst period of depression she’s ever endured. It doesn’t feel right, to be rooted back in this place, far from the call of the Planet that loves her, from sunlight, from a chance to hear Cloud and Tifa laugh as loudly as they dare. 

Elmyra doesn’t say it in so many words, but Aerith can tell she hates the trip ever happened. In a way, Aerith does, too. Midgar has an oppressive weight to it that cannot be denied, the culmination of so many similar despairs bundling in once place. Burn it all to the ground, Cloud had said, once, salt the earth. Maybe. 

\--

“Aerith,” Cloud begins, as they’re pouring over the newest batch of flowers in her personal batch. 

She doesn’t like the tone of his voice. Not wanting to feed off of whatever bleedthrough the Planet is sure to distribute between them if they lock gazes, she makes a questioning noise in her chest and does not look up from her azaleas. These are a deep pink. She has been researching ways to make her own dye. She has an old white dress she’d like to revitalize with some color—these will do nicely.

“I need the materia your mother gave you.”

This is not something she has ever told him about, but the knowledge is not what surprises her. It's the wave of possessiveness she feels that sends a throb of anxiety through her stomach and chest. “It doesn’t do anything.” 

The look he gives her is almost disappointed, and this frustrates her enough that she stands, her hands curling into her dress. Cloud stands too. Pettily, she hates that he is taller than her.

“You and I both know that’s not true.” 

“Why do you need it?”

“Aerith, why do you _ think _I need it?” 

They meet each other’s eyes. Her head immediately thrums with an oncoming headache. “There’s a lot of secrets I let you keep, Cloud. I think everything you’ve been trying to do is the biggest one.” 

He flinches. Actually flinches away from her, like she is the one who has said something shocking. Unable to think of anything to say, she makes a frustrated little noise at him and marches off, trusting him to find his way out of Elmyra’s yard on his own. 

By the time he shows up at their door again tomorrow morning, a lot of Aerith’s anger has left her, leaving behind an accepting sadness. Her mother’s materia is single-use. It is one of the truths in her life she knows with certainty despite a lack of evidence. What scares her is the idea of it ending up like the materia she and Cloud had broken, curious to exploit the remnants of the power in their cores. Is that what will be left behind, after whatever he hopes to accomplish? The jagged remnants of her people, split unevenly in two?

“I know you struggle with it, Cloud, but you have to workshop the way you approach people.” She tells him, scrubbing at her eyes. 

“I know.” He says. 

“And no matter what you plan to do with it, I have to be there.” 

“Of course.” 

“And I won’t let you do something stupid.” 

“Dubious, but okay.” 

She reaches into her braid, blinks tightly against the sting in her eyes, and presents him with the materia. He covers her hand with his own, closing her palms over its circumference. 

“You hold on to that for now. You’ll know when it’s time.”

  
  


**6.**

Channels of communication in Omega’s network are busy, and they have been especially abuzz for a while now, but Reeve can feel the shocked silence of some of their operatives when he drops the message “i’d like to meet. can any of you make it to the 7th Heaven without being tailed? do we need to send funds down for disguises?” 

The replies begin sluggish and poorly edited, and then grow in sophistication as people in the main chatline grow increasingly excited at the prospect. The higher ups have been hinting at something big, 

So when the day—the 2nd of July—finally arrives, and Reeve is ushered into an ingeniously designed elevator disguised by a pinball machine, he feels almost sick with anticipation. Though his initial resentment has mostly been erased, he is still eager to put a face to the man who threatened his life. If Omega truly knows as much about ShinRa as he seems to, he might have approached their connection in a different way. 

He sees familiar faces. He’s been seeing familiar faces for some time, now—Cid Highwind, who he had been assisting with the creation of an airship for months, and is now collaborating with on creating plans for sustainable housing. Several people in his department. A concerning amount of SOLDIERs. General Rhapsodos, of all people, who’d insulted and complimented his work in the same breath. Tonight, Reeve sees janitorial staff, the weapons shop owner from down the road, one of General Sephiroth’s more dedicated assistants, and AVALANCHE’s council, who’s faces he has memorized from President ShinRa’s more impassioned presentations.

His brows rise when one Cloud Strife, SOLDIER 3rd Class, walks into the room, now packed. He’s heard of the boy through Lazard. He’d caused a huge amount of mischief as a cadet, but under the guidance of the Lieutenant-General, he’d been railroaded into a very promising career in SOLDIER indeed. He’s staring down a promotion. Why sacrifice so much wealth and prestige for something like this? 

And then he claps his hands, loudly enough to break through the din of voices. “I’m Omega. Thank you for coming. We’ve been doing good work. I know you all are tired. We’ve been doing a lot of travel, a lot of work, a lot of moving things around. I know I’ve been vague with some of you about our plans. Tonight, I want to give you the chance to help me workshop what we’ve all been working for.” 

The room is a roar of voices. Reeve laughs into his hand, too incredulous to be as angry as he probably should be. Strife waits until they quiets, and then promises to answer their more pressing questions after they’re done. Even through their shared frustration, they get to work, the efficiency of habit setting into them. Reeve meets lawyers and doctors and Regulation Army troopers. SOLDIERS with glowing eyes patiently walk them through movement formations. A trio of teenagers explains the importance of leaving their personal phones behind for the big day, as well as ways to bypass more intense security protocols of intra section travel. They’re all given basic rundowns of reactions between common chemical compounds. They’re quizzed on the use of different materia. They’re asked to share allergies, to ensure no one will have a reaction to the homemade potions and elixirs and energy drinks they’ve been making. 

“Make no mistake, you will be in danger. You have my word that I’ll do my best to make sure you’re as safe as possible, but there’s a risk. Once ShinRa realizes what’s happening, they will push back.” Strife admits. 

“What if we got kids?” A gruff looking woman pipes up.

“I’m glad you asked. I’ve got several places you can take them. Our babies here in the slums will be down here, and in a few other tucked away places. They’ll all be guarded by SOLDIERs, plural.” 

This question opens the floodgates.

“What happens if this goes tits up?” 

“It won’t. Don’t ask me that again.” 

“What will you do about President ShinRa?” 

“Wish I had a guillotine, but I have someone who’ll handle that.”

“How old are you?” 

“I’m seventeen.” 

“Why are you doing this?” 

“Why not?”

“How long have you been working on this?” 

“Years.” 

He’s succinct and darkly humorous, but the dedication is clear to see, and the plan is not air-tight, but as well formed as it could be, especially when he calls on each of them with his request for their part in the day. He calls them each up to the front, where he and the AVALANCHE leader walk the person through their plans, before sending them back into the group at large to reconcile their work with the rest. When it’s Reeve’s turn, Strife gives him a crooked little smile and says, “Sorry about threatening you.” 

“Were you serious?”

“Oh, a hundred percent. I would have been sad about it, though.” 

And it occurs to Reeve that that first threat had been made when Strife was about fifteen. Astonishing! His life has gone nowhere but downhill, in odd swirls, since the day he decided to move to Midgar.

“This spiky asshole’s been followin' through on threats since he got here.” Wallace confirms.

Reeve lets out a sighing laugh. “What do you need from me?” 

“I need you to shut down the reactors in each sector. I know you have access to them. The Egg Heads,” and he jerks his head at the giggly teenagers who have been standing off to the corner since their brief little presentation, “will help you with that.” 

“And on the day of?” 

“You’ll be down here with them.” 

“What about you?” 

“I’ll be on the field, of course. We’ve all got our part—can’t really share mine with you for security reasons.” Strife says. 

He runs a hand through his hair, pulling thick locks out of his face. There are dark circles under his eyes—rare, for a SOLDIER. He gives Reeve a determined look before dismissing him, and Reeve realizes with rapid clarity that he has just stared into the eyes of someone prepared to die. 

\--

Barret has been helping deliver the same talk, more or less, to everyone involved in the networks, for weeks. 

It’s funny. For all he’d been intent on destroying Midgar’s reactors, on marching into the faces of the folks up top and demanding they do right by everyone else, it feels quietly horrifying to have reached the place where they put their money where their mouth is. 

“What’s the day?” Barret asks.

“The sixteenth, probably.” Cloud answers, cradling a cup of apple juice like it’s the strongest hard liquor. 

Tifa had made him that soup he’s addicted to before she retired for the night, and though he’d thanked her for it, he hasn’t touched it at all. It has long since stopped letting off steam, and now sits settled on the bar. He hasn’t had much of an appetite since they first started ramping things up. Vincent, running detail to tie-up loose ends, is not there to force him to eat, and everyone else knows that he is the only one who is ever able to convince Cloud to take care of his body. 

“Barret?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Tifa would break my nose if she heard me say this, but take care of her if something happens to me, okay?”

Barret gently punches him in the shoulder. “You right, she would break your stupid ass nose for sayin’ that. Ain’t nothing gon’ happen to you, boy.” 

Cloud laughs. “You think so?” 

“Not on my watch. Little froggy ass.” 

Cloud presses his eyes into the curve of his palms and breathes out through his nose. “Gods, I hate this.” 

Barret pats him on the back. He’s never been good with words. He proves things with action. He supposes he did right by Dyne, taking Marlene in, and he loves her more than anything. He’s been wrangling these snot-nosed kids for a while—protecting them, covering for them, taking the fall when too many eyes turn towards the slums. That’s what he does. He’s not going to stop because he might get a little more resistance this time. 

“Take your skinny ass to bed. I’ll put your soup up.” 

Cloud mumbles an agreement, gives Barret a thankful smile, and stumbles his way up the stairs. Barret is grateful the bar is closed. There are a lot of people who look his way for guidance and support, and he doesn’t want to think about what it would do to them to let them see how tired he really is. He puts the food up, takes a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar, and pops the cork. For better or for worse, ShinRa will answer for its crimes very soon.

\--

Cloud has an apartment. All lower level SOLDIERs are given complimentary living spaces at Headquarters until they decide to find housing elsewhere. Cloud rarely sleeps, period, so it follows that he rarely sleeps where he pays rent. Tifa keeps a room for him at her bar, but once he’d sent his wolf away, he stopped sleeping there, citing a lack of body heat to share. When he does sleep, it’s usually at Zack’s apartment. He’d put up such a fuss the first time Zack offered him the bed that he knew not to push it—there are some things he simply cannot be moved on, and this is apparently one of them. So he’d given Cloud a key, sometimes (more times than not) the kid turns up in the mornings bundled on the couch, no issue. 

This morning, he walks in on Cloud with his face halfway into Zack’s huge carton of chocolate ice cream, eyes suspiciously red. Cloud wordlessly offers him a spoon, and Zack lets out a sigh as he falls into the cushion next to him. Zack has done a lot of things, since responsibility of Cloud was thrust upon him, but eating ice cream on the couch at 0500 hours was not what he thought he’d signed up for. 

“I don’t like chocolate,” Cloud tells him, around a mouthful of chocolate ice cream.

“So why are you eating it, weirdo?” Zack laughs, endeared by the pitiful look of him. 

“I don’t… I don’t want this all to end.” 

“What’s ‘this?’” Zack prompts him, leaning in to take a scoop. 

He has an idea. When Cloud gives the word, they will expose themselves to the world for the first time, and then who knows what will follow. It is scary. It’s one of the scariest things he’s ever experienced. He’s so scared about it that it has swung right back around to a weird calm. 

Cloud, throws an arm out. “This, uh. Life.” 

“You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, right?” 

It’s really important that he knows that. Cloud gives him a wobbly smile. He has never seen Cloud cry, not once, but it feels desperately unreal to see the evidence of it on his face. 

“You don’t get to have a say in what happens to me, Zack.” 

Zack pops another scoop of ice cream into his mouth. “Why do you always talk like that? Like you know the answer to a bonus question on a super hard test.” 

Cloud laughs, kicks at him with his foot. “Guess teacher decided I was her favorite a long, long time ago.”

\--

“It’s time,” Cloud says, slamming his hands on tables, “it’s time. Get up.” 

Johnny has had mixed feelings about the little Nibelheim kids since they got here, and to be fair they are not kids anymore, but it’s still alarming to realize a couple of teenagers are probably calling the shots on a coup. He has his role, though, if only because Tifa’s got a lovely smile and he’s never really been that great at resisting peer pressure, so he stands up, gives Cloud a nod, and tries to take stock of what he’s supposed to be doing. 

“Time for what? What’s wrong, Cloud?” Little Marlene calls, as everyone moves in a synchronized frenzy around her. 

Johnny can see some of the tension melt from Cloud’s body. The guy’s always had a soft spot for kids. It’s how they get away with swindling him for cash so often.

“Oh, gosh, I thought you’d be asleep. You’re sneaky, huh, sweet girl?” Cloud asks, walking to meet her where she’s been sitting at the bottom stair. She _ is _ sneaky, probably because of that Vincent guy, Johnny supposes. Barret couldn’t be quiet if his life depended on it. It’s not uncommon for her caretakers to realize she’s been silently watching them go about their day when they just about trip over her. 

Marlene nods, proud of this accomplishment. Cloud glances up at the ceiling, as if in thought, and then he looks back down at her. “We’re having a party. We’ll be playing a little rough, so it might be loud, who knows. Everyone’s been practicing.” 

“I wanna come, too!” Marlene whines. 

“We’ll be drinking grownup juice and it’s way past your bedtime,” Cloud tells her, which gets him a pout but ultimately silences her complaints. 

Things are a blur, for a little while. They gear up and review objectives and checkpoints. At some point, gunshots ring outside, which energizes them all. Jesse, Biggs, and Wedge are banished to the basement, ostensibly to watch Marlene and a growing procession of younger children that are parked inside by steely-eyed parents and guardians, but probably for their protection as well. It’s not like they won’t be contributing in their own way from their computers. 

“How come Johnny gets to go? All he does is make drinks,” Jesse complains, as they fiddle with the pinball machine trap door. 

“Johnny helped us make hundreds of molotov cocktails, potions, and other assorted energy drinks.” Cloud answers. 

Johnny hides his prideful smile by looking away. 

They get back into the swing of things. A woman is shaking so hard that she needs help putting her gear on. Cloud asks if she would rather hide downstairs, and she gives him a firm refusal, citing anticipation. They’re taking stock of equipment rapidfire. Someone needs goggles. Every now and then, Cloud checks his phone and announces the shutdown of sector after sector. They will be up next. At one point, three conservatively dressed figures march into Tifa’s bar. The first one pulls his hood off, then his companions follow. A brief silence stills the chaos as everyone realizes that _ the fucking generals of SOLDIER are here. _

“You’re late!” Cloud barks. “Go, go! The materia is upstairs.” 

Murmuring words of assent, they make their way up the stairs. Before long, they come back down, carrying a large black case between them. The proceedings have to halt to allow them through.

General Rhapsodos gives Cloud a grin as they mosey on by. “Let’s hope you didn’t get too big for your britches, Strife.” 

To everyone’s surprise, Aerith darts forward and pulls him into a tight hug, which he returns one-armed. He says something to her that’s too low for any of them to hear.

General Hewley reaches out to shake Cloud’s hand. “Good luck, son.” 

General Sephiroth only gives him a nod of acknowledgement. He sweeps his catlike eyes around the room, and they stutter over where Aerith is tucked into Genesis’ side. For once, his impassive expression tightens. Aerith smiles at him, because that’s just the kind of person she is, but Johnny can see the confusion setting in as the moment stretches uncomfortably long in the silence of the bar. Cloud interrupts them with a harsh “_ Go. _” The Generals cover their faces, take their leave.

The energy picks up again with their exit. 

“Where ya goin, boss?” Johnny asks, sidling up to Cloud in the middle of a lull.

“Aerith and I have got a date in the playground. Then I’m gonna make my way up top to help Vincent and Barrett with the demands, after they’re done sweeping things up here.” The kid answers, pushing his hair away from his forehead. He’s looking over a map of the city, chaotically marked with pen in a multitude of different colors. 

Tifa rushes up to Cloud with one of Johnny’s drinks, says, “You’ll probably need it.” He downs it in one go. 

“Thanks, Johnny,” Tifa tells him, reaching out to squeeze his arm. 

One of Cloud’s little SOLDIER friends, an olive-skinned young man (Isaiah? Jeremiah?) with wild dark hair, is accompanied by Aerith, who is looking increasingly jittery and pale with worry. Johnny hates it. Nice girls like her shouldn’t have to be involved with stuff like this.

“You all be safe, okay?” Johnny tells them. “World needs ya.” 

They all smile. Damn. Kids with a purpose. 

Johnny accepts his assignment, and then leaves.   
  


**7.**

The first person Gjertude meets in Cosmo Canyon is the creature Cloud spoke of in his letters, Nanaki. He looks at her, then at Freida, and says, “She’s not a dog! Cloud is so strange. Did you know you have a strange son, Miss Gjertude?” and she is instantly endeared to him.

Beside her, Vincent lets out a brief noise of amusement. Gjertude laughs. “Oh, I think I’ll like it here.” 

“You know how to reach me if you need me sooner, but I have work to do.” Vincent tells her.

He accepts a kiss on the cheek, ever stone-faced, and after helping her upload what belongings she brought with her from his truck, he leaves at top speed.

Life in Cosmo Canyon is so delightfully different from what she is used to. She is the daughter of a mountainous people, has rarely experienced warmer temperatures. Her first days puttering around the little settlement her son found for her are a blur of heat and wonder. She’s pushed herself to heat exhaustion more than once, but the only way to learn a place is to get lost in it, so she moves.

The town elder gifts her with a modest cottage, smaller even than her ancestral home, but it’s hers, and she adores it. The living room is affixed with stained glass windows that open like small doors, large enough to let in a pleasant breeze. She quickly gets started on a garden, fascinated by the variety that is now open to her. She writes to Cloud about how she is settling in, about how Freida is obsessed with the new room she has to roll about, about the new stars in this southerly sky, about how much she misses him. She could see the two of them making a go of it here. He is much better suited to this quiet, simple living. 

Somehow, the people of Cosmo Canyon harness their energy from the sun, odd panels and fans affixed to houses and poles. Materia that has run its gamut still has a faint glow, and they have found a way to settle them in full view of the sun for use at night. The faint glow of different magics illuminates her house at sundown. She misses her fireplace, longs for it even as the ambient warmth has her napping with no blankets in the day, and especially when temperatures drop abruptly at night. She thinks of the last time she saw her son quite often—of his hair, possibly as long as it’s been in years, of the weapons strapped to his back, of his new height and strength. 

Gjertude knows her son. Cloud is not happy where he is. He is such a serious child. He has always been preoccupied by this quiet desire for more, for excellence. She keeps memories of his best moments locked in her heart and wishes she could stretch them. If he could just find some way to settle whatever it is that occupies his thoughts, he has the potential for much happiness.

He has been writing to her this entire time, telling her every little thing. His letters follow the same themes. What he ate and why he hated it. The children who follow him like puppies hoping for treats and attention. What he hoped to accomplish in the next week. Anecdotes about his growing network of companions. Did she need anything? The people of ShinRa, sometimes in so much detail that it was censored before being mailed out if he didn’t write it in Old Nibel. Cloud is a creature of habit. It worries her when her weekly letter fails to arrive for the third time in a row. Gjertude trusts her son. If he breaks routine, it is for a good reason. She will not push. 

\--

Bugenhagen once tells her that Cloud is the oldest child he has ever met. She understands what he means with painful intimacy.

\--

Sometimes Nanaki and Freida curl up together in her living room, a shifting mass of fur and noise. Nanaki is bright and curious and talkative, happily monopolizing her time. It is so soothing to have people to talk to, Gjertude realizes, after Nanaki nips Freida in the ear and complains to her about how her winter coat isn’t serving her well. She’d been loathe to leave Nibelheim, but it had been a particularly lonely existence after her hodgepodge family dispersed. 

\--

She gets a package from Cloud at the top of the next month. Inside is a cookbook of international fare, and a gorgeous medium-sized jewelry box filled to the brim with gil—she counts twenty thousand, her astonishment growing with each bill. 

The letter enclosed is brief, and no different from the usual, but she can’t help but feel that there is something she isn’t being told. It’s the last thing he ever mails to her.

Gjertude is not an idiot. She knows that the people of Cosmo Canyon are involved in something big, and they all seem to have agreed that she should be shielded from whatever it is. Sometimes she’s apologetically barred from visiting this house or walking down that path. She’s never, ever allowed to leave the village without someone by her side—the few times she’s tried, she always realizes that Nanaki or some other warrior is trailing her from an unsubtle distance. People she’s never seen before pass through, which is not an irregularity for Cosmo Canyon, as a sort of hub for environmentalists around the world, but they refer to her by name. She sees Vincent with regularity, and had once tripped over herself when she was sure she saw Zangan making his way towards the highest point in the village. 

There’s no way her Cloud is not involved. It frustrates her that he has apparently convinced an entire village to keep secrets from her.

\--

Gjertude is embroidering a pillowcase when a chill runs through her. 

The day had already began strangely, with the townsfolk buzzing restlessly about. Someone had frog marched Freida and Nanaki to her door, cutting short their usual playful paces with a flimsy excuse about safety. At some point, she’d heard cries of alarm. Already, the people cry, Today? 

She has been struggling with a prickly restlessness for the last few days. Few of her old or new comforts help. Nanaki and Freida surround her like satellites, all but tripping underfoot, like they can sense her unrest. She does errands and crafts and tends her garden and is never truly alone, but she’s never felt more isolated in her life. Today is not exactly unique, in a string of frustrating smoke of mirrors.

So, this chill—there is something about it that feels final. Like some fundamental part of her has disintegrated. 

Gjertude closes her eyes and breathes in. She doesn’t realize she is making noise until Nanaki presses his head into her stomach with a whine. Strained, keening sobs are leaving her as soon as she can pull air into her chest, panic making its ugly way into her muscles and locking them up.

There are many emotions that had been entirely unimportant to her until she became a mother, but the deepest of them all is fear.

When Gjertude was of age, she’d been barred from taking part in her family’s pilgrimage to the Northern Continent because she thought herself in love. Months later, he’d left her young, pregnant, and unmarried in insular Nibelheim. She had not heard from her family again and she had no allies. The fear feels like that.

Years later, Cloud’s father returned to Nibelheim for the first and last time. She’d been so afraid he would try to take her son away that she’d puffed herself up like some bird of prey, bellowed at him with all her strength in both of the languages that she knew. After he left, she was boneless with relief and fear of retaliation. She was unable to get off the floor for hours. Cloud was three at the time—she’d been worried about his health, with her laid prone like that. He was still breastfeeding. He’d gathered his toys and sat with her until she recovered. The fear feels like that. 

The fear feels like every day Cloud came home with singed or ripped clothes, every time he opened his mouth to speak a language that made her nose bleed and her eyes water, every day Mayor Lockhart gave them a look that had her afraid she’d need to find a way to relocate with the clothes on her back and a small person who depended on her. Inevitable, indomitable, all consuming, the answer to every question she’s ever had about him answered with the worst finality. 

“Miss Gjertude,” Nanaki is saying, his voice wobbled and tinny as if underwater, “please be okay. I’m sorry. What’s wrong? I’m sorry...”

There are two furred heads pushing insistently into her stomach, paws trailing restlessly on her shoulders. She is aware of them in a detached sort of way, but she feels nothing. After a while, it is as though the fight leaves Freida and Nanaki, their warmth sliding listlessly along her frame. Defeat and something like relief worms its way into her chest, makes her fall into that familiarly weak state that follows a major upset.

When Gjertude comes to, she is alarmed by the tangle of bodies on her floor. Outside the windows, she can see a slinking green light, illuminating the three of them in an eerie kaleidoscopic glow, mako green filtering wavy through the multicolored glass of her windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you might have noticed this has gained a chapter and a rating change. the rating change (which was inspired by elements literally mostly in the last chapter) may have been unnecessary, but better safe than sorry i guess! the chapter element served the flow better but it really, really irritates me that this has an uneven amount of chapters now.
> 
> happy to announce this is 100 percent done! the next chapters will be staggered over the next few days or so. im kinda nervous!! this is the biggest writing project ive taken on in a while. i wanted to try my hand at writing a quieter (for want of a better word) time travel story, so i was a little worried that it wouldn't be interesting. your support has been my biggest motivator!!
> 
> until next time!


	10. The People

In Wutai, the assault begins silently. They have been bringing children and the elderly up Da Chao for weeks, in quiet and risky pilgrimages near and far. Through the trees, under the cover of night, past ShinRa patrols. The foreigners sent to help them come from places near and far—some have glowing SOLDIER eyes, some are young, some are old, all of them careful. 

They have been sharing supplies by day and night—sometimes wrapped in kimonos, sometimes hidden in boxes of food, sometimes layered under their clothes.

Their strongest surviving warriors are parked in the tunnels beneath the palace, communing with the large blue materia left in their care. Emperor Godo is amongst them, leading the incantation, praying for Leviathan’s guidance. For a moment, there is concern that it won’t work. Then, with a whine of crackling power the lower chambers are bathed in a gentle blue glow.

Above them, villagers and fighters alike pull their veils over their faces, and reach for their weapons.

\--

In lower Junon, the first attacks come from the water. A regulation army trooper cries out as he is pulled underneath the waves. His finger slams on the trigger of his gun in reflex, but his struggle is snuffed out by multiple grasping hands. An array of bullets fly towards his comrades, who scatter in alarm. Someone has run for the barracks to sound the siren. When it kicks up, suited figures rise from the plume of blood spreading in the water, and meet their comrades with whispered words of encouragement.

In upper Junon, a group of young women watch with bated breath as a procession of ShinRa employees enter their bar. One of them sends a pretty smile their way as she edges towards the far wall. The other locks the door. The last sits on the lap of a red-faced man in a suit. 

The man behind the counter closes his eyes, breathes in, and counts to three.

\--

In Cosmo Canyon, Bugenhagen leads the town elders in a rousing chant in his observatory.

For the first time in many years, Bugenhagen steps down from his orb for something important. He joins hands with the people standing next to him, and they bow their heads as a collective. The materia in their care bursts to life in a pulse of yellow, and for a moment, it feels as though they are harnessing the power of the sun.

\--

In Fort Condor, the set of troopers on duty outside of the reactor are given word that its power has ground to an abrupt, unnatural halt. The villagers, emboldened by the presence of protective forces who have been blending in with traditional garb, make their way up the trail.

\--

Drawing on the materia is the most difficult for the people of Mideel. They are this operation’s smallest force, and though many of them have lived lives closer to the Planet’s call than most, they have not met much conflict in their lives. And this _ is _ a conflict—they are bending reality at a scale larger than what could be expected of an ordinary person. 

Neighbor holds neighbor as exhaustion sets in, rapid bursts of green light pulling them from one extreme to another. They are parents, doctors, teenagers with grass stains on their pants from playing with younger siblings merely a few hours earlier. They have all been practicing the exercises their Teacher shared with them, but none of them were prepared for today to be the day.

Someone cries out for them all to _ try harder _, and it is the desperation in this youthful voice that brings them all to where they need to be.

\--

In Midgar, SOLDIER’s former generals—for whatever happens this day, victory or not, they have accepted that their positions are forfeit—pry their way into a ruined highway, the chaotic rush of activity in a darkened sector masking their advance. 

Even if they were unenhanced, the violent red glow of the materia in their care would have burst cleanly through to the darkness. Sharing a grimly amused look, they stand tall, and reach into themselves.

Around them, people are running, organizing, shouting—taking their final stands against their shackles. All over the city, under the plate and above, SOLDIERS are fighting for a leader few of them have met face-to-face on either side. Some deflect bullets and shield civilians. Others steel themselves against the reflexive horror of the orders being shouted into their ears and ready themselves. 

Tear gas is thrown, and civilians run fearlessly at canisters to douse them with bottles of water, trusting their stronger operatives to protect them from harm. Orders are being passed around, using any of a myriad of communication systems—the Kriolu of Gongaga, repurposed versions of Regulation Army ground signal. Tag and you’re it, and the next objective is clear—shield that child, throw that bottle, cover your ears. Pass along the homemade elixirs to the cavalry, assist the enhanced, hand out the goggles to anyone who was not outfitted with a pair before the sectors were shut down.

And through it all, two of the Planet’s strongest children are making their way to an abandoned playground, their hands joined. One cries out in alarm and falters at the sight of their people facing military forces, but she is urged along with a hand on her back. The journey is a difficult, meandering one—they have to pause to avoid roving enemies both alive and mechanic. Duck, her companion says, put your head down, stop, move, now, go. The Cetra is in tears by the time they reach their hiding place, frustration and fear mingling ugly in her chest.

“Cloud… what are you?” The Cetra says, once they have settled.

The two of them are just small enough to fit underneath the flimsy curve of the little house beneath the slide.

And the Weapon laughs. “That’s a new one.” 

Realizing her mistake, the Cetra bows her head. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” 

She reaches into her braid, and a soft white glow illuminates their faces. Both of their eyes reflect unnaturally against it, hers Lifestream green, his holding the divine glow of a Weapon awakened. They join hands, cradling Holy between them. They can feel the Planet rouse like a beast pulled groggily from its slumber, and then sharpen into focus with abruptness. They can feel its star sailing scourge, the last of it entangled stubbornly inside, and all the despair of the people who fell to it long ago. 

“Okay. Let’s get you fixed up.” The Cetra says. 

She answers the pull of the Weapon’s magic with her own. The Cetra’s heart skips a beat as she feels the weight of several lifetimes pass between their shared gaze, steeped in regret. 

“I never blamed you,” she says, gritting her teeth against the Planet’s growing cries. “Not once.” 

He smiles at her. “Funny. You’ve told me that before.” 

Holy magic bursts forth from their fingertips. The Lifestream rises in rebellion against its corruption. 

“Whatever you see, I’m sorry.” The Weapon says.


	11. The Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks as always to my dear friend danny for helping me clean this up :)
> 
> it's seriously irking me that this has an uneven amount of chapters now, so im considering making an extra "chapter" that just answers common questions, ties up loose ends, highlights little details that might have been missed etc. would you guys like that? 
> 
> sorry i haven't responded to comments like usual! im an embarrassingly sensitive person so i was (pleasantly!) overwhelmed by your nice words. i really appreciate you showing up. i hope you like this chapter!

A white sheen covers Midgar. With a pulse, it spreads outward, arcing across the sky in trailing white, slender fingers reaching far and wide. 

Around the world, fighting and struggles cease as a powerful compulsion brings even the strongest fighters to their knees. The Lifestream’s curling light makes its slow way out of the ground, breaking through barriers, towers, water—up, and up, reaching for that divine overcast. 

The world dreams.

**∞.**

The midwife is unsettled by the fact that the newborn Strife child does not cry, even after his general health is confirmed, but she is tactful enough not to say anything about it.

He’s a small thing, born a month early to a mother a bit too young for comfort, but little Gjertude Strife just takes her baby in her arms and whispers a thank you, laying a kiss on his damp forehead. She doesn’t fight the helpers who scoop him up for cleaning, but she watches them keenly, even through the exhaustion setting into her eyes. 

“Do you have a name for him?” The midwife asks.

“Cloud,” she says. “I think Cloud suits him just fine. It’s so nice to finally meet you, Cloud.” 

It’s untraditional, especially for Gjertude Strife’s extremely traditional family, but is very much in character for an odd girl with odd aspirations.

“That’s a lovely name,” the midwife says. “I hope the two of you are happy together.”

\--

Cloud dies young, just shy of age thirteen, dipping his hand into Jenova’s tank. What is left of her cells seep into his body through his pores to colonize his bloodstream until it is no longer his. ShinRa finds him weeks later, and will use his corpse as research fodder for years to come. 

\--

Cloud dies in Turk uniform, betrayed by the people he built a life and family with, on the side of the road. Heartbroken, Reno spares a moment to bury his face in his hands. Then he unlocks his phone and says, “Target neutralized.” 

\--

Cloud dies cradling his first and last child to his chest as the Planet wilts around them. He breathes her in, nose pressed to the crown of her head, where the hint of the Lifestream that all children carry is the strongest. He vows never to have children again.

\--

Cloud dies taking his last stand atop ShinRa tower. He is resplendent with the light of the Planet’s blessing enveloping him, surging through his body, but this gift was called upon too late to fix the wounds riddling his body. In the end it is the blood loss that takes him, but ShinRa will say it was the power of justice hard and rightfully served.

\--

Cloud dies—

\--

Cloud dies—

\--

Cloud dies—

\--

**∞.**

“Oh, I was First Class.” 

“Just the same as him.” 

“The same as who?” 

“My first boyfriend.”

“Were you… serious?”

“No. But I liked him for a while.” 

It’s a lie. Something Aerith tells herself to smother her hurt at being abandoned, even knowing full well that with ShinRa involved, it probably wasn’t by choice.

“I probably knew him. What was his name?” 

“It doesn’t really matter.” 

\--

“Another letter? You know it’s probably a lost cause.” 

Aerith has always hated Tseng. She hates his wandering eyes, hates his joyless voice, hates his attention, but most of all she hates him because he can never seem to stop talking when it’s clear no one would like to hear the truths he thinks are necessary to deliver.

“Well, just in case. If Zack ever sees them, he’ll want to read them all.” 

\--

Aerith puts her hand on Cloud’s forehead, and feels instantly that he’s not ready to join the Lifestream just yet. 

“Mother?” He asks, sounding so young that she wants nothing more than to embrace him. 

“Again? Why is everyone calling me their mother lately?” She jokes. 

“I guess they must be fond of you.” Zack says. 

“This one’s a little too big to adopt…” 

She’s as heartbroken as she is relieved. She can feel similar emotions from Zack when he murmurs, “Tough luck, friend. Looks like you don’t have a place here.” 

\--

When Zack brings his friend to her church, something inside her head glitches. There is no other way to explain the way reality seems to stutter, how sound swirls away to nothingness. He looks young and small and quiet, and she can see that he’s busily swiping away at his eyes. 

“Cloud?” She asks, not understanding where that came from, why she feels so relieved at the sight of this complete stranger. 

Zack gives his friend a concerned look. “You two know each other?” 

“No,” Cloud answers, at the same time that she thinks, _ Yes _. 

\--

Aerith sees it on the news, by chance, while she’s having dinner at a little Wall Market restaurant: Two ShinRa deserters were gunned down on the highway outside of Midgar. The news has been religiously documenting the killing spree of the blonde one for a while now, and it seems he and his companion fought and killed wave after wave of Regulation Army and low-level SOLDIERS, hell-bent on swarming the city. President ShinRa affects a properly remorseful face during his press conference, expressing his relief that the potential threat has been neutralized. 

There’s a sardonic air spreading amongst the customers. 

“Poor bastards,” the owner says, quietly scrubbing the bar. “Wonder what secret they found out to deserve that. Still, probably for the best after all the short one’s been doing.” 

He’s met with murmurs of agreement, tutting and shaking heads and calls of _ That just ain’t right. _

They wouldn’t show dead bodies on the news, but Aerith feels, somehow, that she knows who the “deserters” are like she knows her own name. She can picture them. She allows herself a moment to dip her head and pray for their rest. 

\--

Her prayer is cut short, and the clatter of her mother’s materia is thunderous in her ears. The last thing she sees is Cloud’s horrified expression, his hand held out to her.

**∞.**

“Vincent, teach me Wutaian.” 

“I can barely speak it.” Vincent lies. His memory is odd about certain things, but this is not something he has forgotten.

Cloud shrugs, with his thin arms perched on the lip of Vincent’s coffin. He’s a sickly, tiny thing, prone to fits of delirium and ill temper. How he made his way downstairs is a mystery, but Vincent would be a liar if he said he does not enjoy the non-judgmental company.

“Teach me what you know.” The boy suggests. 

A little draft runs through the basement and a shudder takes him. The resistance leaves Vincent in a rush. “Bring a notebook and we’ll get started on the writing system.” 

Cloud smiles at him. “Thanks, Vincent.”

From then on, he’s a very dedicated student. Every other day, he makes his way into the basement with a host of basic little sentences scribbled into his notebook, along with questions for Vincent to answer. Over time, the questions become less and less relevant. Where was Vincent born? How old is he? Does he prefer night or day? Cats or dogs? What does he want to be when he grows up? Does he like Cloud? (“I like you very much,” Vincent tells him, “do you like me?” And Cloud says, “You’re my best friend.”)

Pneumonia takes him a year later, before they can really get their hands into the thick of the more complicated kanji Cloud was so excited to learn. Vincent leaves flowers by his grave at the beginning of every week.

\--

The boys who shove the top of his coffin away look far too young to have mako eyes, but Vincent is not surprised. 

“Hojo used us as lab rats, we’re escaping, and we’ll probably be followed. Will you help us?” 

“I don’t know you.” Vincent says. 

“Yes, you do,” the blond one says, bafflingly. His eyes are set deep into a tired face. He’s white knuckling the rim of Vincent’s coffin, his arms trembling. “Come on, Vincent. Don’t you remember me? Isn’t there anything this stupid fucking world will—”

\--

“—give me a moment. Watch this.” 

Cloud is staring down at the longboard with more concentration than Vincent thinks it warrants, but once he gets the thing down the hill and then back up, he ends on a little flourish, spreading his hands wide. Vincent gives Barret a look of confusion.

“I fail to see the functionality of all of this.” Vincent admits. 

“I told you. Someone comes up to me, boom, pocket fire, and I’m gone,” and he activates the materia he keeps on his bracelet with no apparent effort, a plume of blue flame bursting before his face. It settles, and Vincent can see that he has singed the tips of some of his more rebellious locks of hair. 

“Kid, I know you think blasting fools in the face is cool and all, but you can’t balance for shit.” Barret tells him, refreshingly honest as always. 

Cloud just laughs. “I’ll learn! The revolution can, must, should, and will come on skateboards!” 

What a ridiculous child. 

\--

“I don’t like Lucrecia.” 

It’s not an announcement that comes out of nowhere while they’re reading Hojo’s reports, and is not entirely baseless for someone who has only known her through papers, but Vincent still feels a protective burst of emotion in his chest anyway.

“You didn’t know Lucrecia,” Vincent says, reaching out to snatch the stack of papers from Cloud, “and I think you’ve been awake for much too long.” 

Cloud glares at him—really glares, down the bridge of his nose. He’s seen Cloud give many people that look, and it’s surreal to be on the receiving end of it. 

“I don’t need to know Lucrecia. I know she gave her kid up to fucking,” he splays his hand wide in the direction of the papers, “space alien science and the most abusive motherfucker to walk the planet, and _ you _ ,” he points a finger in Vincent’s face, “may have slept through it but _ I _,” and he points back at himself, “am going to—” 

\--

“—fix this!” Vincent roars. 

“Fix what? The world’s fucking ending!” 

Cloud has blood on his hands and a gleam in his eye and teeth that are too big for his face, but ShinRa’s president is dead, and they can’t be here anymore.

“What do you mean? Why are you always saying that?” 

“Because it is. I fucked up really bad, so none of this matters.” 

And then the anger in his body is erased with abruptness. Cloud sits down in front of President ShinRa’s desk. He looks out of place in his Regulation Army uniform, sitting amidst blood splatter, like he hadn’t just murdered someone with zero remorse, rhyme, or reason. 

“What happened to your plan? Why did you do this? I told you not to have this weigh on your soul,” Vincent tells him, kneeling before him. 

Cloud is rooting his fingers around in his mouth, uncaring that they’re covered in blood. He winces and tugs at his lips, at one point sticks his finger far enough in that he lets out a bubbling retch. Vincent has seen him struggle with his body in events of danger before—covering his ears as he shakes off the crackle of magic on his skin, dabbing at the blood pooling in his eyes, chewing on anything to soothe the ache of his teeth. He’s alarmed to hear a little _rip_, and then Cloud is pulling an entire tooth from his mouth. He observes it with clinical interest, and then throws it behind him, where it hits President ShinRa’s body with a small thunk.

“Look,” Cloud says, “is another one growing back?” 

It’s unnatural, the way his jaw unhinges for Vincent’s inspection. 

Vincent, knowing that it’s best to oblige him in these fits, looks. Cloud pulled a molar. Another one is not growing in. “No.” 

“Right. That energy’s gotta go somewhere else. The world’s ending. Thanks for being a good sport.” 

“Cloud,” Vincent says, reaching for his hand, “we have to leave.”   
  


**∞.**

“Welcome back,” Bugenhagen says. 

“We’ve never met,” The boy says, giving him an alarmed look. 

“Yes, we have! And this is not the first time you’ve come to me for help!” He adds, floating down to make eye contact. 

Crumpling with relief, Cloud Strife falls into the nearest chair.

  
  


**∞.**

“Mom, am I a bad kid?” 

“You’re the best kid,” Gjertude says, struggling very hard to not to look up from her work. 

It won’t do to show Cloud the frustrated tears welling in her eyes. Damn this village, damn these people. Damn Mayor Lockhart, and his child. Damn the old paths and their rickety upkeep. Damn the family who left her, damn the man who decided he didn’t want a child. 

\--

Gjertude’s four-year-old hasn’t spoken yet.

Cloud is just fine, in every other aspect. He can clearly understand her, and has a habit of following her around, tugging on her clothes if he wants her attention. He’s not fussy, has no favorites or dislikes aside from particularly loud noises, and is watchful. 

Gjertude talks to him every single day, a running commentary of her plans. Were he to speak tomorrow, she wouldn’t be surprised if he began with a play-by-play of the day. 

“Maybe it’s the languages,” the midwife says, when Gjertude asks for advice, “are you confusing him with the languages? You’ll have to pick one, my love.” 

Gjertude understands the silent message in this question. She ought not speak Old Nibel with him. It’s falling out of fashion, is different from Common in every fundamental way, and has little use, these days. Feeling particularly petty, Gjertude only speaks to him in Old Nibel from then on. 

The first thing he says to her is in neither in Common or Old Nibel. 

She kneels in front of him, and asks him to repeat what he just said. It’s like her mind stutters around whatever it is. He opens his mouth, and what her mind processes is images and knowledge—a temple, warriors standing bruised and bloody before the violent, corrupted remains of people they once loved, a decision, a barrier. Her head throbs. 

And then, he says, “Mama?”

She hugs him tightly enough that it must hurt a little bit, but all he does is wrap his arms around her neck and hug her back.

\--

It’s when she catches Cloud trying to discard another bloodied cloth that she realizes he’s been hiding something from her for a while. 

He’s never been a particularly strong child. He’d been born early and thus underweight, and he gets winded from tasks that most children barrel happily through.

“Ský,” She barks, stopping him in his tracks. “Bring that here.” 

It’s not that she wouldn’t have been able to tell, anyway—she can see a speckle of blood in the corner of her mouth as he approaches her, face drawn. She holds a hand out, and after a moment of hesitation, he puts the cloth in her hand. She clenches it tight, uncaring of its wet surface. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She means to sound firm, but what comes out is tellingly wobbly. 

She can see answering tears welling up in his eyes. 

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he says, voice scratchy. 

“I _ made _ you,” she whimpers, “I’ll always worry about you.” 

**∞.**

When the Cetra warrior reaches out for the _ thing _ that has landed before her, she is sure that she might be dying. For one awful moment, her connection to the planet is erased, leaving behind first a booming silence, and then an insistent ringing in her ears. It grows and grows, bringing pain with it, and it feels as though her head is splitting open, and then—

And then something comes alive in her. 

She is fury and power and the cosmos condensed, the beginning and the end, so much larger than any of these mewling beings roaming a world that would have lived longer had it not gotten foolish and lonely and given birth to its own slow death. She travels the stars, spreading herself, taking root, growing. She can feel it when this Planet turns its righteous gaze on her with burning repulsion, but it is too slow, and she knows them now—knows them all. 

\--

She can feel their hearts burning. She can feel their struggle to escape her will. The fear within them is beyond anything their souls can withstand. They are mourning, they are weak, they will be hers. 

\--

She spreads her will until the last of them are forced into hiding, downtrodden and distrustful, too used to seeing loved ones lose their form in her shape. She will drive them to the last.

  
  


**∞.**

Sephiroth hates the sickness tests the most. 

Hojo had sneered in disapproval when he first heard Sephiroth call it that, so he doesn’t say it aloud any longer, but everyone in the labs can tell how he feels about it. Some are sympathetic—they have all but raised him, after all, this team of people in white coats—and steal the chance to squeeze his shoulders or ruffle his hair when Hojo has his back turned. Others are as clinically distant as ever.

Professor Gast is here to watch as Sephiroth climbs onto the operation table. He pulls a sweet from his pocket and hands it to Sephiroth, busily waving Hojo away when he protests at the sight of it. 

“How are you this morning, Sephiroth?” 

“I’m doing well, Professor.” 

“Did you finish the latest assigned chapter?”

“Yes,” he hesitates, glancing at where Professor Hojo is ordering the aides around. He unwraps his treat, hoping that the crinkles of plastic will drown him out when he says, “black holes are frightening.” 

The candy’s wrapper said that it was strawberry flavored, but it doesn’t taste at all like strawberries. It’s very likely that this is just sugar and dye, hardened. It’s also completely unallowed on account of his strict diet, and for that, Sephiroth decides that it is the most delicious thing he’s tasted since the last consolation candy he was given.

Professor Gast smiles. It makes the crows’ feet at the corner of his eyes deeply pronounced, an imperfection that does not look as ominous on his face as it does on Hojo’s. 

“That they are, my boy,” as he speaks, he gestures for Sephiroth to lie back. Sephiroth, by now used to this routine, settles down and holds his arms out. “Even knowing they’re lightyears away, there’s something both romantic and terrifying about a star corpse stealing even the light from everything around it.” 

An aide walks over, gently murmurs a greeting as he rolls Sephiroth’s sleeve up. He can smell the familiarly harsh scent of antiseptic right before wet cold is pressed against his upper arm, followed by the prick of a needle. He stares up at the ugly, swirling designs in the ceiling, a coping method he’d developed early.

“How is it that something like that can happen? Creation, in the way that stars create. Metal and plasma and all that light—and then somehow gravity wins? I’m not satisfied with that. What if... what if whatever was hungry on the inside was always there and fighting to get out?”

Professor Gast opens his mouth to speak, but he’s interrupted by Hojo. “The cosmos does not work like one of your fairytales, my boy.” It’s said mildly, but sends hot fear spreading through Sephiroth nonetheless. Another thing not to talk about, lest it’s deemed that astrophysics is not an appropriate thing for him to learn. Mythology and religion, in any way that could not be linked to summon materia, had been cut soon after Hojo had caught him staring at images of seraphim for far too long. He’d been fascinated by how their divinity made them so alien, the folds of their many wings and the guileless look of their eyes.

Sephiroth says, “Yes, Professor.” 

The next half hour passes in a familiar blur. Another needle. The nasal cannula. His shirt is lifted so he can be connected to the heart monitor. The thermal blanket, when he complains about the cold seeping into his extremities. (“Ah, it’s working, then,” Hojo says, scribbling at his clipboard. “Set the timer for three hours. If he doesn’t fight off the infection by then, we’ll try again with a lower concentration.”) The preliminary questions, so that his answers at the onset can be compared to the answers that follow the death of whatever malady is working its tortuous way through his system. 

He is not allowed to sleep through these trials, but his eyelids feel as though they have weights attached. When he voices this thought aloud, the nearest aide winces and removes the blanket, leaving a brief and uncomfortable prickle of cold in its wake before his lower half goes completely numb. He can’t stop himself from giving her a wounded look, and something in him hardens when she sets her jaw and walks away. Hoping to distract himself, Sephiroth looks back towards the ceiling. 

He is met with an unfamiliar face.

“Who are you?” 

The stranger’s glowing blue eyes are tight around the corners, the way Ifalna’s get when she’s holding back tears. 

“Who _ are _ you?” He tries, again.

No answer. Strangely and suddenly, a thrum of anger races through him. He can hear the heart monitor picking up, the scuffle of aides and lab techs, Hojo speaking above the din about hallucinations with barely restrained excitement. He can feel tears pricking his eyes. Sephiroth is four years old. He has not cried in two years.

The stranger reaches for him, and Sephiroth flinches, an instinctive reaction. 

He is—He will—

\--

“—never be a memory.” 

\--

The chorus of voices do not want him to know of the magic pushed into darkness, but they are afraid to reach him with their ugly light, dancing around his being, fearful of his mother’s powerful influence, they do not want to meet—

\--

“—again soon.” 

It feels, strangely, like a lie.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Zack says, pointing, presumptuous as ever.

He looks as tired as Sephiroth feels.

\--

He senses hatred from Cloud Strife. 

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” 

“Likewise, sir,” Strife says through gritted teeth. 

\--

He senses a quiet curiosity from Cloud Strife, wholly different from the techy worship of his contemporaries. 

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” 

Strife’s eyes widen at his words. 

“You’re surprised? Zackary will not stop talking about you.” 

Strife gives him a tentative smile, gaze searching. “Likewise, sir.”  
  


\--

“It’s not personal, sir,” Strife says, through sobs. 

The winds of the Modeoheim mountains are cold enough even for Sephiroth to feel it in his fingers. Strife, so new to his mako, is pink faced and heaving wetly into the air, even his hardy ancestral constitution weakening against the blizzard. Yet, still, his hands are frighteningly strong around Sephiroth’s neck. His beloved nodachi, snapped into two by some unseen force, is out of his reach. 

“Isn’t it?” Sephiroth asks. 

Because he knows those eyes. He first saw them at thirteen, set into the faces of Wutaian prisoners of war, acceptance and hate swirling. Has seen them since in Dr. Hollander after every spat with Professor Hojo, has seen them even in Genesis’ eyes after a particularly harsh fight. Those are avenger’s eyes. The loss of a battle, but not a war.

“It hasn’t been for a long time,” Strife grits out, “It’s just what’s right.” 

\--

“It’s not personal, sir,” Strife says, sounding terribly sad. 

The winds of the Modeoheim mountains are cold enough even for Sephiroth to feel it in his fingers. Strife, so new to his mako, is pink faced, even his hardy ancestral constitution weakening against the blizzard. Yet, still, his hands are frighteningly strong around Sephiroth’s neck. Sephiroth’s beloved nodachi, snapped into two by some unseen force, is out of his reach. 

“Isn’t it?” Sephiroth asks. 

Because he knows those eyes. He first saw them at thirteen, set into the faces of survivors of the conflict in Wutai, acceptance and despair swirling. Has seen them since in the faces of the people from below the plate, has seen them even in fiends on the verge of death in the field. Those are the eyes of grief. Knowledge that can’t be unlearned.

“It hasn’t been for a long time,” Strife sighs, “It’s just what’s right.” 

\--

“I pity you. You just don’t get it at all. There’s not a thing I _don’t_—”

\--

“—cherish the little things. Eat some fucking candy.” 

Strife shoves him in the shoulder, friendly yet brusque in the way only he can be. Sephiroth takes the offered bag of caramel chocolates. They are his favorites.

“So,” Sephiroth says, “Nibelheim is your hometown.” 

“Sure is,” Strife says, rooting around with the vending machine. After a brief pause, he rears back and delivers a vicious kick to the bottom of the machine, smiling when several snacks fall down.

“Are you excited to go back?” 

“Nah. Nothing good ever happens there.” 

“Then why insist on coming along?” 

“Didn’t think it was right to send you there—”

\--

“—without me?” Genesis hisses. “You would be _ nothing _ without me.” 

“Genesis, please,” Angeal says, reaching out. Genesis pushes him away so harshly that he falls heavily onto the earth below, the air leaving him in one awful wheezing noise.

They don’t look like themselves. They are pale, their skin cracking, the glow of their eyes setting harshly against the tired darkness of the skin around them.

“Backup is on its way,” Sephiroth says, instead of the questions he wants to ask. Why leave him? Why do something like this without asking for help? Do they not know they are the first people to make their way into his life and stay there?

“Who? Angeal’s pup, and that _ child _? Do you not remember how young you were when they put a sword in your hand and pointed you at people who had done nothing? Do you not see how evil it is to be a part of something like that?” Genesis is incandescent with anger, coiled as if ready to strike. 

“Sephiroth,” Angeal says, “please don’t cry.” 

Sephiroth is a child in a lab again. “I’m not.” What an ugly feeling.

Angeal’s words stall whatever movement Genesis had been winding up. His shoulders fall. 

“Sephiroth...” 

“I’m not,” Sephiroth says. 

He—

\--

—is fury and power and the cosmos condensed the beginning and the end so much larger than any of these mewling beings roaming a world that would have lived longer had it not gotten foolish and lonely and given birth to its own slow death—

\--

He cradles what is left of her to his chest and falls, falls, falls, bested by a—

\--

—boy who gives him hopeless shrug and says, “The Lieutenant-General told me to make sure that you ate it all before I left, sir.” 

\--

Why not this? Why not become this? Hojo’s blood is on his hands and he has never wanted to taste anything more. The thought slithers sluggishly into his head that this is not blood worthy of consumption. His hands veer away from his mouth. He smears it on his face instead, down to his neck, until the wet slide of it is nearly gone. 

“You,” Hojo says, laughing and coughing wetly. “Are everything that I ever wanted you to be.” 

Sephiroth says, “I am more than anything you could ever be capable of wanting.” 

He’d used his sword to strike the blow that knocked Hojo off of his feet, but it feels so natural to rear his hand back and—

\--

—he is rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Ifalna kneels to pull him into one of her all encompassing hugs. He’s curious about the life growing inside her, the way he can feel it calling to him, faintly. He began feeling it only recently, and is always privately relieved to know that its warmth is still there, growing stronger despite Hojo’s interference.

“You’re so good, Sephiroth. I’m so proud of you.” 

“Why?” He asks. 

Tears roll down her face. Perplexed, he reaches out to wipe them away. She laughs and cups his cheeks. “What’s not to be proud of?”

Professor Gast is watching them, his face drawn. He meets Sephiroth’s gaze with a tense smile. 

“We don’t have long, Sephiroth. You—” He ducks his head. “You might not hear from us for a long time.” 

“Okay,” Sephiroth says.

Professor Gast crosses the room, and gives him a hug of his own, tight and brief. Then, he clasps Ifalna’s shoulder. “We have to leave.” 

“Keep reading,” Ifalna says, as she stands. “Read anything you want. Fairytales. Textbooks. Letters. Eat candy even when you’re not supposed to. Make sure you love someone.” 

“I will.” 

“You promise?” 

“I promise.” 

It’s the first one he ever makes. The next morning, Hojo smilingly informs him Professor Gast and Ifalna are nowhere to be found. 

\--

(A little under a year later, he could swear he glimpses familiar wavy brown hair in his peripheral on the way to a routine checkup. When he hesitates, Nanny sighs in frustration and bodily picks him up, mistaking his curiosity for a tantrum to be preempted.)

\--

The stranger’s hand is hot on his chest, light curling lazily into the air. The heart monitor is beeping shrilly, jarring but central, screaming over the din of voices.

“I’m Cloud. I’m a friend,” he says. “And you didn’t deserve any of this.” 

Something dies inside of him.

(He feels this odd echo of uncertainty, of acceptance and questioning.

As if in reply, Cloud—Cloud, who has killed him again and again and again and again—snarls up at the ceiling. “So try harder. You owe me this.”)

Something is dying inside of him. 

“You can do this, Sephiroth,” Cloud says.

“I can’t,” he sobs, “I’m scared.” 

It hurts. Surely he is dying. He can feel his heart burning. The memories swirling inside him are too big for his body. Every single inch of his skin feels like it is awash with flame.

“I know. I know. It’s okay. Hold on tight, okay?” He offers Sephiroth his free hand.

“Whining will not get you out of this, my boy,” Hojo crows. 

Professor Gast is delivering orders rapidfire, and he pauses only to silence Hojo with a firm warning, “I will have you removed if you don’t shut. Up.”

“Focus on me.” Cloud squeezes his hand until it hurts.

**∞.**

After the Huge materia drains them of all magical stores in their body, Sephiroth leads Genesis and Angeal out of their hiding place in the destroyed highway, through the slums, and eventually up to the plate.

They offer ground support for what feels like hours. Scarlet's creations have been sent out in a last-ditch attempt to bolster ShinRa's forces, but Sephiroth is reading the field and he understands with an incredulous burst of energy that Strife's people just might be winning. When they fall, they either get back up or fill in the gaps, pulling each other along. They're deft hands with simple weapons, and some are impressively efficient with materia. 

And then it feels until it feels like everyone locks up in unison. They watch in wonder as tendrils of ghostly green trail across the sky, blanketing Midgar, blocking out the sun. It is a beautiful and horrifying sight.

As he’s looking up at this stunning display of magic, Sephiroth feels the strength drain from his body gradually. Before long, Masamune slips from his grasp, and does not return to him even when he calls for it.

“Sephiroth?” Angeal calls out, alarmed. 

Angeal shoulders his way past the people who have assembled around them, Genesis hot on his heels. As they make their way to him, he can see the exact moment when they experience his same lethargy, stumbling on their feet like newborn fawns. The people around them drop. Genesis catches him just as he loses his fight against gravity, and they all fall in a heap.

Ridiculously, Sephiroth thinks of a day in the labs. Of cold feet and strawberry candy and black holes.

**∞.**

After hours of fighting, there are tears of blood trailing down Cloud Strife's face when he makes it atop the plate. He clutches his chest, taking stock of the rapid but weakening flutter of his heart. The faint glow around his body sputters out with a swirl of multicolored magic, and a rattling breath whistles through his gritted teeth. 

“Oh, cool,” he says, “thanks.” 

His eyes roll back, and his legs give out beneath him. He is dead before he hits the ground.


	12. The Lifestream

You observe his fall, realizing absently that you have chosen a knight who is very, very small.

_ Did I do okay? _ Omega asks.

All of the parts that create you feel a rush of warmth, relief, and so much love. If it were possible for you to localize emotion the way the living do, in the chest, you think it would ache.

_ Please don’t start over, _ Omega says, _ I think this can work. _

Then, quieter, _ I’m pretty tired. _

You won’t send him back. If you take another chance like this, it could be your last. The purification process is complete—the Calamity’s hold on you and your children has been extinguished for good. You will have to be content with this and whatever follows. And, above all, you are just as tired as he is.

He takes this in, reflects a desperate relief into your collective. 

Well, if nothing else, this was a better go than the time he tried to incite a war. Or the time he’d joined the suited ones and somehow orchestrated a coup d’etat. Or the cycle where he’d died at eight years old because of an uncharacteristic misstep walking up the mountainside. 

You can feel his amusement through your bond. _ I think your voices were making me kind of delirious those times, to be fair. _

You are sorry. You are so, so sorry. 

_ Why are you sorry? Don’t get me wrong, you’re kind of annoying, but I had a job to do. _

It is not possible for you to embrace the living without consuming them completely. And though Omega is not living right now, you hold the spark of his spirit—weakening, due to overuse of his gift, and then his involvement in the purification. But it is present. The unnatural power you pushed into it long ago is unraveling rapidly, tendrils of white peeling away to expose its native green core. You would like to embrace him very much.

You give him one last offer.


	13. The Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are, finally at the end. danny, thank you so much for laying eyes on this and urging me to post it.
> 
> remember, im doing a chapter dedicated to author's notes after this, so leave your pressing questions with your comments if you have any. there's so much i want to say and i feel like it'd clutter ao3's chapter notes section, so once i organize my thoughts i'll have that up.
> 
> what i CAN say is that i super appreciate you guys. thank you to those of you who consistently left comments. thank you to those of you who saw the updates and somehow caught up. thank you to those of you who haven't commented but have showed up for every update. i've been so pleasantly surprised by the reaction to this. i hope you guys know you've made some very difficult times a lot better by putting up with me blabbering away at you. i hope this last chapter is worth it!

**1.**

There are a few constants in the Planet’s dogged attempt to have Cloud save it the right way. 

In his first life, Cloud lied to anyone that asked that his father died when he was young, mostly because this event had been his first memory:

When he is a toddler, his father returns to Nibelheim exactly once. His mother screams and cries and throws things, tells him never to return. Pretty much the only thing Cloud inherited from his father is the set of his shoulders and an unfortunate head of hair. In his first life, he’d looked at photos comparing he and his mother at the same age, and privately wondered if his father was even real—if he hadn’t just sprung from his mother fully formed, complete with the same exact freckles and smallish body and smile. His father is a tall, wide set man, but he always shrinks under the wrath of Gjertude Strife. Cloud is there to offer comfort by proximity until she recollects herself and hugs him tightly to her bosom. 

Second. Cloud reads the reports on Sephiroth’s birth front to back at least once. He memorizes it, somewhere in the early cycles, but he always gives it the look it deserves. He always burns the library, but these he keeps, their details locked vividly enough in his mind and his heart that rewriting them to his own benefit is never an issue. 

Third. His connection to the Planet is a powerful and sometimes all-consuming thing. Sometimes She comes to him in images and music and memories that aren’t his, a weak attempt at guiding him forwards. Others, that awful chorus of consciousness that makes up the Lifestream speaks. It has become less of a problem as the cycles continue. They do not have an infinite source of tries. If he does not fix this in due time, their collective existence is at stake. 

Using materia is an exercise in patience and restraint, because the barest thought at pulling from its power makes even the weakest of them well up with energy. The adjustment period is tedious and necessary, and he’s constantly having to be careful of a newly young body—he rarely lives for long, and the planet is sometimes over-eager to meet the call of Her protector. In resetting Herself, in bringing time back to its optimal time frame for survival, the souls of every living thing is stripped to its base and repurposed. Gaia is alive, but not in any sense that humans can comprehend. Her memories fail her at times—some lives, Cloud meets people who did not exist in any other incarnation, the result of dreams and cross-wire planet wide synesthesia. In some lives people have the same faces and different names, different hair colors and skin tones, different parents, no parents at all. He has long since learned to let go of the first set of memories and emotions he has towards people he met in that first life—they will all persist in some way or the other, and the feeling of joining with their collective in the agonizing stasis of a reset has ensured that he knows the whole of them more than he ever thought to know anyone.

\--

Cloud’s anger towards Sephiroth had been great, early on. He’d needed someone to blame, and while Sephiroth’s frenzy of destruction is not something that can ever be forgiven even knowing how he was raised, his power is not what broke the Planet. No, he’d been the final straw on thousands of years’ worth of wrongdoings, exacerbated by ShinRa’s greed. He is the culmination of things. Even knowing this, a particularly bad cycle sends him into a fit of revenge for the next handful of lives. For decades, Cloud kills Sephiroth. He means it the first few times. Cloud snaps his neck. Cloud runs him through. Cloud burns him alive. Cloud pushes him into that damn reactor more times than he can count. Cloud strangles him a couple of times. Then, once, he decides to just watch.

And then he gets into SOLDIER—stumbles his way into it, really, by virtue of experience and a cycle marked by frustration. He researches obsessively, in this life. He trains until he can barely breathe, because it is the only thing that tires him enough to sleep. And oh, some part of his childhood desires awaken with gee, because he’s done it, he’s actually done it, and every person who ever turned their noses up at him in Nibelheim was so wrong. It’s a brief high, though, tapers out when he works his way to First Class and is unable to avoid Sephiroth.

By the gods, is he awful sometimes. Sephiroth is awkward. There is no other way to put it. He has mastered charm as an actor does a script, but the moment someone steps outside of the script he has set up for himself, it is easy to see him struggle to calibrate. He doesn’t know how to talk to people, and sometimes for lack of words will march away, timing atrocious. Some find it endearing, but he sours his relationship with many by doing this, building a reputation as a spoiled wonderkid. But, above everything, there is kindness in him. He cares for his men, even the lower ranked ones who aren’t likely to escalate any further, who can scarcely look at him without gaping or flinching away. Zack adores him, which was always a hefty endorsement. Cloud overhears him offering stilted words of comfort over the loss of Angeal (a mistake Cloud always struggles to rectify), that knot of rage in his chest weakens. There is a lot of weight on those shoulders, a lot of trauma left to fester. Underneath it all, there is a young man who had never been given the chance to be less than the sum of others’ expectations. 

Cloud will always need people in his life. He doesn’t want to be alone. He’d meant what he said to Sephiroth, all that time ago, atop the ruins of Midgar. There _ wasn’t _ a thing he didn’t cherish then, and especially now—including Sephiroth himself. He’s learned a lot about everyone, even people he never thought to interact with. He loves them all. Cloud allows himself this bit of selfishness, and collects his important people to him. 

\--

Sometimes, he doesn’t do enough. Others, he actively toys around with doing nothing. He enjoys just being a child, a few times. These are the worst cycles, because it means that Gaia’s disapproval is expressed in odd ways—materia that doesn’t work (or that works too well, at the worst moments), thunderous messages that leave him babbling and incoherent, long periods of unpredictable malaise. He’s unsure if it’s a punishment or an attempt to kill him off earlier so the world can start over. It’s a bit difficult to erase an age-old, planetary sickness when its savior can barely walk. 

It’s during these cycles that he learns the most, however, so there is some benefit. In his first life, he’d wanted so badly to fit in with the other children his age that he’d done his level best to forget their ancestors’ language. He never quite managed to get rid of the odd effect it had on his accent, but he’d succeeded, for the most part. That first time he’d come back, once he’d reached an age where his brain was capable of processing the task before him, he’d realized that he had no prior memory of his mother’s face. He immediately decided he’d do anything for her. He’ll never regret the family he’d made for himself, after everything. But he is truly the only thing Gjertude Strife has left in the world. 

What with Nibelheim’s history, there’s a passing chance that he and Tifa share as much DNA as the average pair of cousins, but the same can be said for the next neighbor over. Cloud is the culmination of something deliberate, has the same look of his grandfather’s grandfather and those that came before. Relearning that love and history makes him feel grounded in a way he rarely was in his first life.

He learns other languages as well—Wutaian, first during a cycle where it was obvious Vincent took some pity on the sickly child snooping around his haunt, and again from a family who settled in Wall Market; the Kriolu of the Gongaga people was very useful during that life on the run with Zack; the strange pidgin that cropped up among trade outposts. 

He learns how to read people in the disapproving silences that slam down upon would-be bullies, in the kindness of adults who see the children in their lives in the tired slump of his shoulders, in healers who begin their time with him puzzled, then determined, and then increasingly defeated.

\--

Each time he dies, he’s born with a new birthmark. Some of them look like scars. He starts wearing long sleeves.

\--

He scares himself the first time he angers the wrong man as a child in Nibelheim. The town elders love a good drink at sundown, and brown liquor abounds. Cloud makes a snide little comment about the hubris of men past their prime, mostly because he can see the man’s gaze lingering on the house he shares with his mother and partly because Cloud likes to annoy people. He’s found out that you can learn a lot about a person once you push them to an emotional extreme, and there’s nothing functional immortality doesn’t do if not make a scientist out a person. He has been testing things against common sense for generations at this point. (Looking back, he’ll wonder if maybe the cold and his aching sinuses had addled his mind.)

The man approaches with a hand raised, and Cloud, who is sickly in this life and not thrilled about the possibility of a bruise that will take weeks to fade, shuts his eyes tight and thinks about how much he wants the man to just _ Stop! _

When the sting of a slap has not fallen on him, Cloud hesitantly opens his eyes. The man is frozen in place, his eyes milky.

Cloud scurries home. The townsfolk find the man’s corpse the next morning, stuck in place with his hand raised.

\--

He falls in love. He falls in love often. He falls in love even (especially) when he has passed the point of no return and the death of all things is imminent. He never regrets it. 

He does not regret building that first family with Tifa—a little life together that started as something of an apology for the first one she wanted that his depression stole. They are so sweetly happy for a little while. Cloud raises their daughter and tends to their chocobos and Tifa goes where the world and her big heart take her. Cloud ignores the wilting of perfectly healthy plants, the prickling of tenderness of his lungs, in exchange for this chance at bliss. 

Once, Tifa asks him, “Remember when you wanted to join SOLDIER? Why did you change your mind?” 

“I got distracted trying to figure out what color your eyes are.” He tells her. 

Cloud annoys Reno into loving him, somewhere into his first run as a Turk. He shoves him into puddles after a rain and tugs at his hair and calls him names, but mostly he’s recognized that Reno has allowed whatever experience that drove him to the Turks to cover his thoughts and emotions with cavalier churlishness, and he needs a friend that won’t easily bend to his will. Cloud realizes he loves him when Reno tells him his hair looks like he’s been blasted with a leafblower and then dissolves into a fit of laughter, amused at this assessment. Cloud shrugs and decides _ okay why not _ and begins abruptly laying it on thick, cheerfully ignoring Turk code on fraternization. 

He does not regret grabbing Reno’s hands and rubbing warmth into them after the conclusion of a difficult mission in the mountains, shamelessly operating under the excuse of soothing city folk weakness to the cold. Later, he kisses Reno’s knuckles in farewell, cannot help a bubbling laugh when Reno kicks at his shin and calls him a “smooth bastard and the worst thing to happen to the Turks for the last five years, Strife,” because Cloud knows he has his heart. 

He does not regret kissing Aerith under the soft glow of morning sunlight. Love with her is a slow, gentle thing—she knows him, is likely one of the few people on the Planet to be able to say this with complete confidence across lifetimes. He is nothing but a person to her, and she laughs at him, teases him, checks him when he’s uppity, loves him with simple determination. 

“How are you feeling?” She likes to ask, random and often, and she takes whatever answer she gets like a task to see to. 

Happiness must be lengthened, sadness is met with a hand through his hair and a flurry of little kisses on his face. Anger is mitigated by tasks, always. They knit with Elmyra, they tend her garden, she giggles at him slamming huffily through arts and crafts and puts flower crowns in his hair, hands curling warm on his shoulders. 

One of the cycles, he fucks up—it was so long ago that the memory of _ how _ has faded, but he and Zack end up right back in Hojo’s labs. The both of them are far too young to have made their way to ShinRa when they did. When the quieter moments of testing pass, they huddle together for shared body heat and comfort and talk about anything—their lives, their parents, dreams and aspirations. It’s this life where Cloud gets to know Zack, really learns him. Cloud begs him not to go to Midgar before the mako sickness pulls him under. Years later, when Zack frees them from the labs, they spend years on the road, hopping from one place to another, never laying down roots even when they meet people they come to love. 

And it’s a tragedy, the way this particular story goes. Maybe, perhaps, almost. It’s in the tired curve of Zack’s grin after escaping the notice of a particularly aggressive ShinRa patrol, in the weight of his calloused hand on the back of Cloud’s neck, grounding him through an intense bout of panic. It’s in foreheads pressed together as they laugh off the adrenaline of near-death, it’s especially in Zack’s honest, appreciative gaze. (It’s the way this particular life ends that makes Cloud’s rage towards Sephiroth hit its zenith, because Sephiroth reaches into the bond they share from Jenova’s cells and has him running roughshod and violent through settlement after settlement with Zack hot on his heels, desperate to stop him but unwilling to do it with violence. They die on the highway right outside of Midgar, riddled with bullets, and Hojo reclaims their bodies like so much carrion as Sephiroth reasserts himself into reality.)

He has many other loves—easy ones, ones that frustrate him, ones that are sweet and brief enough that the tide of the passing years steals their memory until death, ones that he’d rather not remember for the way they began and ended—but these are the ones that he locks away as motivation for when he’s sure that the Planet should probably just die.

\--

Cloud tests the limits of his control on other people in short, horrific bursts. His connection to other people is rooted in his connection to the Planet, and that reach is incomprehensibly vast. The simplest command can get him so far, and if he doesn’t stop someone from doing what he’s asked, they will keep doing it until they tire themselves to unconsciousness or worse. It’s helpful in a pinch, but it’s an awful, slimy thing. It reminds him uncomfortably of his AVALANCHE days, of not knowing when Sephiroth would reach into their bond and fill him with the ugliest compulsions. The worst thing about those moments is that he’d been convinced that he wanted it; every emotion felt like his own. The dark and violent glee that had him struggling to stifle full body laughter, the floaty sadness that followed breaking his way out of an order, the hazy determination of giving up the black materia or raising his sword to Aerith—all of that had felt starkly organic.

It feels evil to have an ability like this, even though he knows that most moral designations are lost on the Planet.Trying to commune with Gaia about this gift gets him the confused message _ Weapon love Protect collective? _

It is an organism protecting itself. It has given him a skill and he cannot keep his body from using it if instinct drives him to believe he’s in danger. He’s sturdy, unnaturally so, but he’s not unkillable. 

Cloud tries to avoid hijacking bodies when he can, but it doesn’t escape his notice that spending too much time with him fundamentally changes a person. If he were anything like Hojo he’d try to figure out if it did something to their DNA, even. Aerith’s presence had done something similar, that first go around. She’d built a habit of touching Barret’s hair with his permission, fascinated by the small spirals of his curls. Before long, he’d started complaining about having to cut it more often. If they camped on the open road, it was almost guaranteed that they’d wake up with newly sprouted weeds at their feet. 

Cloud makes a note of every softened personality, every suggestible person, and does his best to distance himself when it gets to be too much. 

\--

The WEAPONs never appear. Cloud has a feeling he’s responsible for that. 

\--

He comes close, sometimes, he thinks. He rallies movements, inspires nations, deposes the ones in power and rules in their stead. Once, he dismantles ShinRa with quiet precision and is killed by something stupid and unrelated before he can deal with everything else that needs to be solved—a bullet to the head, for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Cloud keeps himself entertained by running his little experiments. The power of natural and huge materia can be drawn on simultaneously by multiple people. White magic seeks out and feeds on nearby magic of any type. Most people are truly and genuinely capable of good, including those he wouldn’t have expected, while others will never have the emotional range required for a better world. It’s a lofty bit of knowledge he carries around—the Planet’s influence has definitely addled his mind a bit, but he builds on this list of universal truths, recites it to himself life after life.

\--

He doesn’t know what’s different about this particular life. Every time Cloud is born anew, he spends the first few years of his life regaining his consciousness. It rends whatever is left of the old Cloud, what he would grow to be, a slow convergence of memories imposing themselves on a brain that is not yet capable of the higher thought needed to process them. It leaves him numb. Without fail, his mother will comment with amusement on how she worried about him. How she’d been unable to get him to speak much, and how he’d been sweet and loving but a little distant. How he’d say things to her that didn’t ever make sense no matter how hard she tried to understand them. Touched by the Gods, she’ll say, not even knowing just how close to right she is.

Cloud remembers each moment of sudden clarity, and for this life, it comes far earlier than is normal. It’s the _ n _th cycle out of a number that became too dizzying to count, begins pretty much the same way save him deciding to protect the little wolf pup he’s been turning a bind eye to for a while now. 

He is five and he is small and he can see children kicking at a pitiful little thing that isn’t likely to survive and then—he is fifteen and his childhood hero has run him through and then—he is twenty and his legs are not working and Zack is smiling up at him from a pool of rain and blood and then—he is twenty-one and he is staring at Sephiroth down the length of his sword and thinking "never again" and then—he is twenty-two and he is dying and he sleeps on rotten wood and ignores calls and the way the sun sets early and then—he is twenty-five and the world is dying and the Lifestream is corrupted and stealing his breath and then—he is dying again and again and again and again and again and again and then—the Planet is meeting him with a roar of _ mine Mine mine Mine pride Safe the End kin Protect pride Omega welcome Sorry sorry So sorry _ and he is five and he is small and he can see children kicking at a pitiful thing that isn’t likely to survive and he is so, so angry that he’s doing this again that he’s barreling towards them with his teeth bared. 

And that is how he meets the world. With anger, with tiredness. Something is different. If this does not work he will never try again. Sink or swim. He’s given Gaia chance after chance to rid itself of Jenova, has sacrificed souls to Her, has met death in every way imaginable. He is going to save the fucking world, he is going to hug and kiss the people that he loves, and whatever happens at the end is up to chance. 

  
  


2.

The sensation of dying is unfortunately not a new one to Cloud, but there’s something about this one that gives him pause. 

Each time he passes, he can see a bit forward, as the Planet re-calibrates—as it gathers its energy and begins the process of reclaiming its power from those living on it to send them all back to a state that works best for his mission. 

This time, there is no re-calibration. There is a pause. 

His conversation with the Planet passes quicker than it ever has—on a good day, She won’t leave him be—and he feels uncomfortably aware of every life he has touched over the years. It feels like a two-way street, like the loving gaze he has leveled on them is being returned all at once. 

Does he want to die? For good? The Planet wants to know. 

Gaia communicates in strange ways—impressions, mostly. Sometimes voices, sometimes a highlight reel of his worst moments to express disappointment, or a surge of emotion expressed by forcing it through his body. Words are difficult for a being that is the culmination of existence for life as it is known in this corner of the universe, but She tries, sometimes. 

_ Sorry sorry so sorry _ The Planet says. _ gift Return sleep Reunion? power safe kin The End pride pride. _

“Nah,” he says, watching with muted amusement as his head hits the ground. That’s going to hurt. “I’ll see you around.”

3.

Aerith is there, when he finally wakes up. She was apparently watching him sleep, because when his eyes focus he can see that she’s giving him a relieved grin. He registers the ambient scent of antiseptic before he can hear the steady beat of his heart on a monitor. 

“Good afternoon, sleeping beauty. You were under for a month,” she says, her voice cracking. 

Cloud snorts. His life will always find parallels.

“What’s funny about that?” She hollers, punching him in the shoulder. 

Then she gasps and covers her mouth, her eyes welling with tears. Cloud can’t help but laugh in her face, filled with affection. He pulls her into a hug, puzzled that Gaia’s buzzing presence does not kick up at her proximity. There is a curiously empty space in his mind, felt like a phantom limb. He has wanted nothing more than to have his own headspace back, but he can’t help but feel Her absence strongly. This thought worms its way into his chest, curls itself snakelike around growing relief, and makes his throat tight. 

“Hey,” he says, stroking her hair. She’s cut it into a neat little bob, he notices, absently but pleasantly surprised. She can do that now—no more hiding the wisdom of her ancestors in there. “Hey. We saved the world, I guess.” 

She’s pulling away from him with a frustrated little huff, and even though she tuts over the apparent paleness of his face she pinches his cheeks anyway. Then she cups his face, pretty green eyes searching. 

“Is it over?” She asks, her voice small. 

“Completely,” Cloud says, the tears finally falling. 

Aerith coos and wipes them away, urging him forward so she can press their foreheads together. She’s a talkative person by nature, but she is silent now, offering the support of her warmth and company.

“Oh. Happy birthday, Cloud. You slept through it.” She says, at length. 

He is eighteen years old. (He is centuries old.) He is very, _ very _ tired. 

Tifa finds them like this, and she drops the plate of food she was carrying with a great clattering. 

Cloud smiles at her, and opens his free arm wide. “Hey. Come join in on the ‘Cloud’s not dead’ party?” 

And that is how he finds himself sandwiched between them on a bed that’s probably a little too small to accommodate even two people, but it works. A leg here, an arm resting there, Tifa carefully trying not to disturb the IV in his hand. She’s crying silently the whole time, whining and chuckling when one of them reaches out to clear her face or tuck a strand of hair behind her ear—at some point it’d been worked out of its usual ponytail. There’s a beat of silence when they settle. Cloud’s heart is beating embarrassingly fast. When Tifa stares down at him, it speeds up even more. 

“Don’t you ever do that again.” She commands. 

“What, save your asses? No promises,” he jokes, mad with the power of injury protecting him from her fists. 

“Tell me everything. I know you guys have been keeping things from me.” 

“Story for a story. How have things been?” 

So he gets an update, told haltingly between Tifa and Aerith. He’d been found with broken ribs, a collapsed lung, a broken ankle, and a scary amount of blood loss. He’d suffered trauma to the head, which is what they believe pulled him under. They do not need to know that the “trauma” was his consciousness rejoining his body.

Vincent has been handling the proceedings of their work. Sephiroth, Genesis, and Angeal have agreed to comply with whatever Wutai asks of them. Rufus ShinRa is in holding—a few of his more dedicated Turks have joined him. President ShinRa is also in holding, but he has been entirely uncooperative, and thus will be receiving no concessions. (Cloud still wishes he'd thought to get a guillotine.) Those who were willing to share more damning company secrets have been given probationary status. The same can be said for many of ShinRa’s employees, from the bottom up. 

They’ve been rallying the time and attention of what remains of the world’s governments for a summit out West. This will take time. The world is wary and weary after its time under ShinRa’s thumb, and the prospect of rebuilding seems too good to be true. In some cases, it is. Cloud will make it work. The ripples of sharing the reports on SOLDIER, on Sephiroth and Jenova and everything that followed, are still being felt. People are afraid of retribution, and rightfully so. They may have stolen a few heads, but the hydra that is ShinRa no doubt still lives in the shadows. 

But, for now? Things have come to a tentative peace. The people living under the plate have been escorted up top, and given refuge in hospitals, those stupidly and weirdly empty apartment complexes, and other such places with electricity and running water. There is resentment and unrest among citizens of the upper plate—many of them have never had to share so much space with other people. They are also unused to the fickle nature of energy generated by materia, and are dubious about solar panels. Tough titty, Cloud thinks. No one will be living in Midgar within the next five years, if he has anything to say about it. The people of the world will learn to live without mako. Many of them already do. The transition will be gradual, may even take years, but it will happen. Their planet will not survive if they don’t, and Cloud has run out of his nine lives.

“They’re calling what happened ‘The Day of the Jungle,’ you know.” Aerith tells him. 

Cloud throws his head back on a laugh. The girls cackle along with him. It’s because of interviews following what happened, apparently. It’s a name coined by some young journalist who’s desperate to speak with Cloud specifically, not that most people outside of their network know what he even looks like. The world over knows him as Omega—the end. 

“Your turn,” Tifa says, propping herself up on her side. 

If Cloud tells her the complete truth, her heart will break. Tifa is good at hiding it, but she is a very empathetic person, and very sensitive. She will never be able to rest, with the truth weighing on her the way it no doubt would. He already hates that she experienced it even briefly, when the Planet’s final brush with Jenova had seen Her calling on every bit of power her people had created in their lifetimes, with him as the conduit. None of them remember, save Aerith, who has never lived a normal existence. 

So he tells her half truths. His connection to the Planet, felt from a young age. Unnatural power. A need to fix everything so that everyone he loves can live in peace. 

“You talk in your sleep, sometimes, you know.” Tifa says, tracing restless patterns into his arm. He can see her eyes watering again when she adds, “Not, um. Recently. But when we were growing up. If we went camping or slept over. Oh, sorry, I’m a mess…” She trails off into a little giggle as Aerith reaches over to wipe the tears from her face.

“What kind of things do I say?” Cloud asks her. 

“You’d say my name, sometimes. Names I didn’t hear until we moved out here. Names I still haven’t heard. You’d say ‘Don’t go’ or that you were sorry, stuff like that. Basically, what I’m saying is, that makes sense and you and Aerith are weirdos.” 

Her last few words break a tension that’s been rising between them. They all laugh, maybe a little harder than the joke warrants, but it’s nice anyway. 

“We’re _ your _ weirdos,” Aerith tells her.

Tifa rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t protest. 

\--

When he sees his mother, she can squeezes him so tightly that he’s sure it would hurt if not for the mako in his veins. 

“If you do something like that again, I’m shackling you to me! Don’t test me!” She cries.

He pats her on the back, sure that she knows that’s not a promise he can make to anyone. 

The healing process is sluggish. There are opportunistic people lurking in the margins of where ShinRa Electric once operated, even with Rufus’ growing cooperation and Clpud’s stunning network of allies and sympathizers. He would like for change to be collective, but he is not afraid of seizing the whole process and holding hands or twisting arms until the proceedings start going the way that will help the Planet the most. It wouldn’t be the first time he has done it, but this time will be for good. He’s enhanced—not as much as he used to be, thankfully—but he is still human. Even ShinRa’s top SOLDIERs fell, once upon a time.

\--

He’s discharged a good week after his first awakening, and he’s so happy he could kiss the ground. He’s given a walking stick to help him stabilize. For just a moment, Cloud misses the Planet’s unnatural blessing. On a bad day he could smack himself on the chest, inject the smallest bit of healing magic into his hand, and he’d be right as rain. Now, with about as much mako as a SOLDIER third can get before promotion, he won’t heal even as quickly as he did after his time in Hojo’s labs that first life. And, above all, he’s sure that whatever mako is in his blood and the blood of every other SOLDIER will lose its effectiveness over time. He only just manages to weasel his way out of weekly physical therapy.

“You were always such a strange child,” Vincent sighs like the old man he is as he helps Cloud into a wheelchair. 

Cloud says, “At least I don’t look like a bat.” 

Vincent boxes his ears in retribution, something he learned from Cloud’s mother, and the painful_ pop! _ that follows is somehow one of the best sensations he’s experienced in years. 

Settling fully into the chair has left him winded and achy. Cloud lets out a little wheezing noise. Vincent rests a steadying hand on his shoulder. Cloud reaches up to squeeze it. “Hey, thank you. Thank you so much. This literally couldn’t have happened without you.” 

Vincent gives him a rare smile. “Don’t thank me for doing what is right.” 

\--

Cloud is not surprised that Zack sobs openly when they reunite, but the sound of it fills him with a rush of loving amusement anyways. 

Cloud hugs him tight, privately amazed as always that Zack is solid and alive. (For good, this time. Fairly, this time.)

“You’re so fucking weird, man,” Zack warbles, when they part. “I was the one who found you, you know? That was literally the _ worst _ day of my life.” 

He’s about to apologize, but his throat closes stubbornly, because this apology wouldn’t be honest. He wants to apologize for not being strong enough the first time. The second time. The third, and the dizzying amount of time that follows. What comes out of his mouth is an embarrassing little noise. Hating it, he gives Zack a tight-lipped smile and shrugs. Zack immediately hugs him again. 

“Hey, you’re alright, kid. You know? You did a really good thing. You must have been so tired. Thanks for pushing through it.” 

He’ll tell Zack the truth, someday. Maybe the whole of it. For now, Cloud settles for teasing him about his red nose, and reminding him that there’s literally only a two-and-a-half year separation between them and if anyone is the kid, it’s the one who can barely speak. Zack protests, but the argument is weakened by the fact that he’s literally sobbing in Cloud’s face. 

\--

Sephiroth’s hair is brown. 

Cloud almost doesn’t recognize him. It’s the angular shape of his eyes, now a light brown, that catches Cloud’s attention. The whole thing is solidified by Genesis scoffing at something he’s saying. It’s Angeal who notices Cloud first, shuffling down the hallway of Tifa’s little bar (and wow, he will miss this place once they move) with his walking stick in hand. 

“Uh,” Cloud says, “hey?” 

All three pairs of glowing eyes focus on him. Despite himself, Cloud shrinks back. 

Angeal smiles. “It’s good to see you.” 

“Yeah, but like. Why are you here?” 

Genesis rolls his eyes. “We don’t have a lot of options. It was either here with your Vincent or in a holding cell. I’d like to enjoy my time before I’m put before the firing squad.” 

“Please, Genesis. Talk less.” Sephiroth says. 

He ignores Genesis’ protests and walks forward. Cloud can see that he’s pulled his hair into a tight, utilitarian braid over his shoulder. It’s much shorter than Cloud has ever seen it save Sephiroth’s memories, with the braid just barely reaching below his collarbone.

“Decided to take a trip to the salon after the world erupted in revolution, eh J?” Cloud asks, smiling up at him. 

Sephiroth looks good. He looks his age, for one. More than anything, he just looks like his mother. That must have been a nasty surprise for Vincent. 

Sephiroth glances sidelong at Angeal, puzzled. “No. That would have been frivolous.” 

“Okay.” Cloud chuckles. He should have expected that. 

Angeal clasps a hand on Sephiroth’s shoulder. “This happened after the, uh. Day of the Jungle.” 

“I’ve also been unable to call Masamune to me. I’ve decided to return it to Emperor Godo.” Sephiroth explains. 

There’s a beat of silence. Sephiroth watches Cloud watching Sephiroth. Then Cloud rests his weight on his stick and reaches a hand out. “I’m proud of you, J.” 

Sephiroth shakes his hand. 

There’s a lot Cloud needs to speak to him about, but this will do for now. 

\--

His team, AVALANCHE, and what experts they can gather to them—judges, lawmakers, former mayors and governors and presidents—work tirelessly on drafting a set of laws and policy. Cloud is there to serve as a filter for ideas that are unrealistic or that let the most vulnerable fall through the cracks, and he makes a lot of enemies by standing by with an apple juice carton and a smile. A lot of people get called names. A lot of people call _ him _ names. They spend hours inside meeting rooms, bundled up against air conditioning or shedding layers when it gets stuffy. It’s awful and extremely frustrating, but it’s amazing. 

Ratification of a temporary constitution for those under ShinRa’s thumb is imminent, but it won’t last. It’s something to work on. 

\--

It’s important to Cloud that a means of communication is set up between his people and anyone who would like to speak with them. They’ve been sharing bits and pieces with the news as the paradigm of politics shifts.

It has been agreed that Reeve will serve as their face, for now—both because he is generally well-liked, and also because, rain or shine, former ShinRa big wigs have clout that cannot be denied. Peace talks and negotiations ongoing, Reeve is their best bet. The added mystery of their behind-the-scenes leader has opened a few doors that might have been closed in other circumstances. They plan to take advantage of this fact until Cloud recovers completely.

Cloud gets letters, every day. Most of them are from his people: reports on general progress, proceedings on taking reactors down, escorting people to and from where they need to be. The rest are letters from people outside of Midgar. They carry hopes, dreams, requests. The letters from children are his favorite. Kids can have a difficult time following a train of thought, but they are honest and unfettered by the unspoken rules society will impose on them as they age. 

_Does this mean we all get to live on high towers now?_ Justice, an eight year old from Kalm, wants to know. _And if we do, how will we get down when we want to go play with animals? My sister says that’s a stupid question but I think she’s stupid so it makes since that she would say something stupid. Anyway Mr. Omega why did you decide to do this. My uncle says _<strike>_miko_ _mayko_</strike>_ mako is good for us because it keeps our lights on and we get water too. _

The rest of the letter is a long and rambling account of what he and his family have been doing after the fall of ShinRa. His family is worried about how they’ll make ends meet. They haven’t been learning anything new in school, because when they come in their teachers set them to arts and crafts and then try to talk quietly about the state of the world. Justice doesn’t mind this, he says, but he does miss his science lessons.

Cloud writes, _ Maybe! Is that what you want? I think my plan is that everyone should be able live where they want as long as it’s reasonable and they’re taken care of. I think I want to live in a bungalow. Do you know what a bungalow is? It’s a squat house with lots of little windows everywhere. I want to live where there are lots of plants so I can see them through the windows. If you live in towers, I doubt they’ll be so big that you can’t bring any animals with you. It’s just not practical anyhow. ☺ _

_ To answer your question, I did this for you and for everyone like you! When ShinRa put reactors into the ground, it made the world very sick. I think you might have learned a little bit about the mako cycle in school by now. When you start pulling more from the ground than should be there, it causes a lot of trouble with the area around it. That’s why the adults in Kalm don’t allow anyone to be outside after dark—monsters are sneakier at night. The planet needs mako, and mako makes things strong, so it makes everything around it much stronger than it should be. When people are born and when they pass away, the Lifestream changes just a little bit to make sure that it goes right. When you mess with the Lifestream everything goes out of wack. Make sense? _

_ As for lights and water, you won’t be without it if we can help it. I know for a fact that you haven’t been learning about other ways to make energy. It’s always taught that the stuff we used before wasn’t good enough and made the air dirty, and then ShinRa did it better and now we’re all happy. The part about the stuff we used before is true at least. _

_ I’m going to tell you a little story since you miss science class. A long time ago, a little before the Cetra were around, trees looked a lot different than we’re used to now. They used to be much, much bigger, had weird looking leaves, and they died a lot faster than what you would expect of trees now. And when they died, they would just fall over and stay there. This is because the things that eat dead trees now didn’t exist yet! What a weird thing to imagine, huh? Just a bunch of trees on the ground. _

_ Have you learned about the periodic table yet? When trees breathe in, they take all the carbon out of the air around them, and release oxygen, which we need to breathe. Back then, because the trees would just stay where they were when they died, they’d keep in the carbon they breathed. That’s how we got coal. When you squish carbon hard enough, and for a long enough time, you get coal. Nothing was there to help the old trees decay, so they just kind of piled on top of each other and got buried. _

_ Coal is pretty useful, but it does pretty gnarly stuff to the air and can even make rain dangerous. You can’t really clean coal, but if you use it in moderation in safe enough environments, you can keep people safe. Of course, we weren’t doing that. We also used stuff like oil, which can cause a bunch of problems that are a little hard to explain. It was so useful for so many things that it was difficult to replace without costing a lot of money that if you ask me was there, people just didn’t want to share. _

_ It was pretty easy for ShinRa to convince everyone mako was a lot better for us and the planet because its side effects aren’t easy to notice. Ask your uncle if he remembers what it was like to travel before all the reactors came in, if he’s old enough. Have you ever seen plants that were healthy one day and just wilted the next? The Planet we live on is just as alive as you and me, and it needs to be taken care of. _

_ I hope that everything that happens in the future will be easier for you to understand when you’re a little older, Justice. I’ve been told I’m gonna have to make a TV appearance sometime soon. If that happens you can point to the screen and say, “Hey, that guy wrote me a letter!” _

_ \-- _

For convenience, much of the ShinRa prisoners have been confined to the former SOLDIER headquarters. It will be difficult for former SOLDIERs to be dealt with in a way that is entirely fair. Most of them have pledged their allegiance to one general or another. Those who haven’t wouldn't dare raise their sword to a former comrade, and more importantly, they know they’ll be losing the legal immunity ShinRa afforded them. 

Cloud is fully anticipating someone to step out of line. He can only hope they’ll be ready to handle it.

_ \-- _

It becomes increasingly clear that a tribunal must be held to hold ShinRa and its allies accountable for their crimes. The process of gathering people to offer testimony begins arduously, and it’s likely it will stay that way until completion. It will be necessary. Cloud does what he can to help, but he trusts his people. If nothing else, the lingering after effects of the Planet’s strange gifts leave people more open to him than is ethical.

\--

The world is shocked to see the face of the person behind all of the change it’s been undergoing. Cloud can’t help but laugh, reading the opinions on forums at night. People are well and truly baffled._ Just a kid _ , they say, and _ What comes next? _ He knows no one would believe the whole truth. It’s for the best, anyway, but he’s eager to see what else what the future holds.

_ \-- _

“What do you want from me?” Rufus asks. 

“Your money,” Cloud says, immediately. 

Rufus hums. Looks down at where his hands are clasped together on the table they’re seated at. He’s surrounded by some of his Turks—Tseng, Cissnei, Rude, Elena, and Reno, who is giving Cloud worryingly pointed looks—and Cloud is flanked by his growing legal team.

“That wasn’t a joke. Give us your money or we’ll take it.” 

“I’m assuming the repercussions will be worse if I don’t consent?” 

Cloud makes an affirmative chiming noise, just to be annoying. There’s a flurry of papers and murmuring, and then the talks really begin. He involves himself when he’s needed, but mostly hangs back and looks through his notes, letting the experts do their thing.

At some point, Reno sits beside him. Cloud allows him to speak up first. “You couldn’t have just joined us, huh?” 

“Nah. Sorry I was irritating, though.” 

“No you ain’t.” Reno says, dismissively shaking a hand.

He’s wiggling around in search of a cigarette. Reno has this way of performing every little thing. He pats one pocket, then the other, then finally finds what he’s looking for in his breast pocket, first the cigarette and then the lighter, and then a little sigh as he pollutes the talking space with the pungent scent of nicotine and whatever gunk is in his little treat. Several irritated eyes turn their way, including Rufus’. Reno leans across the table and blows a plume of smoke into their general direction.

“You know, after all the shit that went down, people were talking about how they had weird dreams. When all the green lights were up in the air?” 

“I’ve heard.” Cloud says, genuinely curious about where this is going. 

Most people that he’s spoken to about that day remember very little. Some of his close friends mention seeing him, but most of them who did see him saw his last death—which is ultimately not unique, because most everybody saw death of some kind. That was feedback from the Planet trying its hardest to prevent Her own death, and also from Cloud’s connection to them all. 

“Yeah, so like. I remember seeing you.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Yeah. Weird, right?” 

“What’d you see?” 

“We had a food fight.” 

Cloud remembers that food fight. He can’t help the reflexive smile, even through his nervousness. “I bet I won.” 

Reno laughs, smoke flowing from his nostrils. “Yeah, you won alright. Anyway. Stupid thing to dream about while the Planet was doing its whole mumbo jumbo. I’ve been wanting to tell someone about that, but it just seems stupid when people were talkin’ about dead family members and magic and shit.”

“Reno, why are you here?” Cloud asks.

“What else I got to do?” Reno asks, taking a long drag. 

Cloud laughs. “Plenty.” 

“Whatever, man.” 

“I’m serious. Hey. There’s something for all of you. Even your boss.” Cloud adds, glancing over at Rufus. “He’ll just have to wear regular jeans with the rest of us paupers.” 

Reno grins at him. He’s pretty young, too. Both he and Zack have been with ShinRa for so long that it’s difficult to remember their ages, but it shows in moments like this. It’s a good look. Hopefully it will stay.

\--

Sephiroth returns Masamune to Emperor Godo, starting the long and necessary process of reparations for Wutai. 

Godo has named his price from ShinRa over time, as the talks progress. Items that were stolen from Wutai to fill Midgar’s museums are to be returned. The three Generals are pardoned for their actions as youths on the basis of ShinRa’s involvement with their creation, and agree to assist in the effort to rebuild for a set amount of years. Emperor Godo has been far kinder than any of them deserve, Cloud realizes. He hopes they’ve earned it.

There is more to be done—the question of the narrative in education has been up in the air since ShinRa’s fall, and they have all been discussing how best to distribute the wealth ShinRa bled out of its victims. 

Cid is there to watch as they load Sephiroth, Genesis, and Angeal onto his airship for transport. Vincent has been unable to mask his stares. Cloud catches him before he’s about to board. He sides a map into Vincent’s hands, where he’s marked a place he has only visited in his first life. 

“She’s waiting for you there.” Cloud says. 

Vincent nods. 

Cid shuffles over to them, bumps rudely and affectionately into Vincent’s side on the way over. He throws an arm over Vincent’s shoulder, wholly and completely unbothered by their difference in height. Cid has a way of making everything look roguishly purposeful.

“You’re a fuckin’ nutcase, kid!” Cid shouts, over the roar of the airship’s engines sputtering to life. 

“I think it makes me sexy!” Cloud replies, miming tossing hair over his shoulder. 

Vincent shakes his head as they share a laugh. Cloud reaches out to shake Cid’s free hand. 

“What’s next on your agenda?” Cid asks.

“Oh, you know! Babysitting all the adults who should have known better. Thwarting assassination attempts. Gardening with my girlfriends. The usual.” 

“Ain’t that the life! I’ll make sure this one doesn’t swallow coal in despair. Stay safe, Cloud.” Cid says. 

Cloud adores how delightfully mismatched they all are. 

Before the doors to the airship close, Sephiroth, Genesis, and Angeal wave goodbye. Vincent pauses, touches Sephiroth’s shoulder. Cloud does not know what he says, but he hopes it’s something that will help them both heal.

\--

He and Barret go for a walk, searching for nothing in particular. The searches after the Day of the Jungle had lasted for weeks, he’s told, and mostly focused on recovering the bodies of their dead or helping any injured people left behind. Now, the eye is for resources they might have left behind. Cloud had jumped on the chance to survey, itching to leave his room and his mother’s fussing. 

“AVALANCHE is kinda unnecessary now. What are you gonna do?” Cloud asks Barret, just to rile him up. 

Sure enough, Barret answers him with a scowl. Then, glancing at where Cloud’s got a hand tight around his walking stick, he visibly calms himself. Once again, Cloud is in awe of the safety being injured grants him. Barret makes like being annoyed by all of the younger people in their group, but at the core of it all he’s a dad, so he won’t push Cloud as much as he usually does. How far can Cloud go?

“Lotta people still need help.” He mumbles.

With most of the slum folk ushered up top, it feels eerie and sad under the plate. No one deserves a life without sunlight and basic amenities, but Cloud will actually miss the time he’s spent here. Judging by the somber look on Barret’s face, the same can be said for him. 

“And you’re just the guy for it,” Cloud points out, huffing with effort as he makes his way over a particularly rough lump of dirt. 

Barret reaches out as if he’s going to help, and Cloud whines. “Gaia preserve me, please don’t. I’m manly, I got this.” 

Barret shakes his head on a laugh. “You almost _ died _, Spikey.” 

“Still chugging, aren’t I?” 

“Man, you tore up from the floor up.” 

Cloud is so tickled by this turn of phrase that he loses his balance on the way down the little hill, but he doesn’t regret it. It feels good to be on the ground. He misses that connection to the Planet, how it centered him in his mission, for all that it may have been bad for his sanity. Barret crouches beside him, watching with mixed concern and amusement as Cloud giggles into his little bed of dirt and soot and trash. 

After he’s sobered up, Cloud says, “Barret, I hope you know that your part in all this was important. You were really there for us.”

“Nothing doin,” Barret says, taking a seat right there beside him in the dirt. He’s a large man, but he looks surprisingly young and small, shoulders low with exhaustion. 

Cloud reaches a fist up. Barret bumps it with a smile. 

\--

At the end of it all, Cloud hands his mother a steaming cup of herbal tea and takes a seat at her side. They will never be tall people, but at four feet and ten inches, most people are larger than Gjertude Strife. Even sitting next to each other, the difference in height is stark, and Cloud is stricken by the simplicity of it—this evidence of time gone by.

“You’ve been a busy body, I hear.” She says, smiling up at him. 

There are crow’s feet and smile lines that he never got to see before; scars, age spots, blemishes. Cosmo Canyon has been kind to her, has her skin golden with a healthy tan.

“I’ve been a lot of things over the years, mama.” 

“What kinds of things, _ krúttið _?”

He smiles. This, at least, is familiar. She had always been the kind of parent prone to observation and questioning. She rarely intervened in any projects he’d taken up as a child, would coo and kiss and soothe him if he scraped a knee or messed up, but she’d been content to watch and guide, fascinated by her little creation.

“Would you be very mad if I told you Freida and I went up into the mountains and fought some dragons?” 

She’s unable to hide her flinch, and Cloud laughs, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“I’m joking,” he says. (He isn’t.)

“So you’ve been stupid,” She supplies, primly. 

He squeezes her to his side. “Yes.”

“Have you been loved?” She asks.

It sounds very much like his mother wants this to be true.

“Yeah. More than I ever thought possible.” Cloud mumbles.

“That’s good. The world deserves you.”

The jury’s still out on that, surely! It’s probably his fault that the world has been in need of help for so long. Still, it’s sincere, and his mother may not know it, but her words settle into him, unravel some of the self-hate that’s been festering unchecked. 

“Yeah, well. You’re supposed to say that. You’re my mom.” 

She tuts at him, tugging on his hair. Cloud rests his head on her shoulder, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.


	14. (Author's Notes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for suicide ment under the last bolded section

**Who's Danny**

Danny's one of my favorite ppl, my unlucky beta reader, and probably the only reason this got posted. There's a six hour time difference between us and he knows basically nothing about FFVII, but he still ran through this with a fine comb. Sometimes I fucked up his work by going back in and changing something—I'll fix that one day. Anyways everyone say thank you Danny

**Can I share this work?**

If you’d like to share this, I ask that you please just send the AO3 link. This is a huge work and I can’t imagine it would be easy, especially with its myriad cultural references, but please contact me (and credit me) if you want to translate it into another language. Aside from that, I absolutely do not consent to having this work reposted on other sites—this includes FF.net, Wattpad, Tumblr, Goodreads, etc. If you see another version of this online, it was not posted by me and I ask that you do me the kindness of reporting it. I will share links to approved versions of this fic in these notes.

**Memes and References**

  * Nanaki can have a little [salami](https://mashable.com/article/cats-salami-meme/) (Nibelheim 2)
  * [Unless...?](https://www.dailydot.com/unclick/haha-just-kidding-unless-memes/) / [Unless?](https://huntingtonquarterly.com/2018/09/28/issue-95-o-brothers-where-art-thou/) (Interlude 2)
  * [Tomoe Gozen](https://www.tofugu.com/japan/tomoe-gozen/) (The End 1)
  * Gongaga Kriolu inspired by Cabo Verde Creole
  * Old Nibel is literally just Icelandic and Ský just means Cloud lol
  * Origin of most [coal](https://www.nationalgeographic.com/science/phenomena/2016/01/07/the-fantastically-strange-origin-of-most-coal-on-earth/), which was obviously simplified because I am a little dumb (The Knight)
  * If there were two guys on the moon and one of them killed the other with a rock would that be fucked up or [what](https://knowyourmeme.com/memes/if-there-were-two-guys-on-the-moon) (The End 2)
  * The drink Tifa makes for Elijah is a nod towards an FFVII themed [drink](https://thedrunkenmoogle.com/post/42515966867/blue-and-red-materia-cocktails-from-artnia-last) that was in circulation for a while (The World)
  * "I'm loving this so far. You really lived [this](https://warosu.org/ck/thread/8711712?__cf_chl_jschl_tk__=33259ce5b09c328eea4127487983f1e457337178-1582568281-0-AdlTyzQiWUb5e37bn-qPIlZAT16TQGP7G38-389xo56eusm89LS0Lan7lD0xokDM0-ZaZbyEZCWEzKOqiDFuezoos2kMSpHVLHtOv4pno7FgPdtCSNCwkJld6xiMYQfiTw_NovghqFTi59oUnBY3_Zl52aw61KAdID2e8cXYhwES08dPSOu3XIqXOiQqYR7CZ1Fkrs--38J6aweLcHxQTIYxo_bL0synxDLOWgo5fBEgs_e2SA7bWJuC9l33jwaQjOAxUm9CRGmD7pnkZf0-OAEH2KXcLvSKlAY0Cfwz8a65) way?" (Nibelheim 2)
  * You are mean to me you insult me and you don't appreciate [anything that I](https://memedocumentation.tumblr.com/post/116449346280/explained-you-are-mean-to-me-you-insult-me-and) (The End 1)
  * Hey guess what hellfire [tastes](https://random-ferret.tumblr.com/post/188501980946/hey-guess-what-hellfire-tastes-like) like (Interlude 2)
  * Luxiere's that bitch who tried to get Zack to come out of hiding while he and Cloud were on the run. I first played Crisis Core when i was maybe 10 years old and was so scandalized over that. He's in jail now
  * “That’s what I’ve been telling him. Something like that would be a good focus for magic. He’s really good with materia. Crazy good for his age, actually. But he wants something like your sword. Can you believe that? It’ll take years of mako until he can even lift it, bar [some crazy adrenaline rush](https://youtu.be/DIA9BQetkQk?t=918).” (Midgar 2)
  * Maybe, perhaps, [almost](https://lostcap.tumblr.com/post/120379329033/its-a-tragedy-the-way-our-story-goes-maybe) (The Knight)
  * Come to Bahamut [moment](https://www.dictionary.com/e/slang/come-to-jesus/) (The World)

**Misc Things That I'm Afraid Weren't Clear Because I'm Rarely Coherent**

  * The secretaries Tseng remembers Zack flirting with (Midgar 2) were mentioned again in Nanaki’s section—they’d been helped out of Midgar to provide ground support for the revolution and didn’t go missing as Tseng assumes (The World)
  * Cloud was lowkey compelling Elijah with his powers—this is why Elijah had a bruh moment during their lunch break and why there was a bleed through of memories after the mako test (The World)
  * Cloud was highkey compelling the SOLDIER who cut Hojo but it got fucked up (The End 1)
  * Cloud spread the Huge Materia out among communities: Wutai got the blue Bahamut, Cosmo Canyon the yellow Command, Mideel the green Magic, and the Generals the red Summon. This was intended to help the Planet focus its energy, along with Holy, into pulling the Lifestream up and scrubbing Jenova out for good (The People)
  * Sephiroth was the last "stronghold" of Jenova. The Planet wanted to destroy him, but Cloud vetoed that by offering up the last of his WEAPON abilities (The Memory)

**Why is Cloud always feeding people**

  * I feel like that's a cultural thing that seeped into my writing lmao. I firmly believe that sharing food is a love language for black families. Not just for black Americans like me, but across the diaspora. It can be difficult to express affection because of generational trauma & other issues but if a parent or family member said something along the lines of "let me feed you" you knew that was a way to express care that might have been difficult to vocalize. By nourishing the body. I'd planned the majority of this fic out before I really got into writing it—the last chapter was the only thing I wrote from a vague idea—but Reno sussing Cloud out because he's <strike>kind of a flirt</strike> always trying to give people food was kind of like my own private joke that I threw in last minute. I was looking back at what I'd written and thinking BRO you mentioned food so much what's up with that

**Girl where the fuck is Palmer**

  * I deadass just forgot about that fella. He's not very interesting anyway

**What about (insert possible inconsistency or loose thread here)?**

  * I pretend I do not see it. I pretend it do not matter. 
  * No but in all seriousness, that's just genuinely not the point. I love these characters and their world so I wanted to get in their heads. If you're thinking of something that doesn't add up, trust me when I say I've agonized over it. In the end I decided to just have fun because I needed a hobby lol. I know I fucked the timeline all the way up. 
  * This is also why so much of the meatier aspects of building the networks and the fighting towards the end wasn't explored like it could have been. I hope that makes sense. Cloud did a bunch of the work with the help of other people in the background, and I mostly explored the ripple effects of that to the people around him.
  * Sorry about any possible confusion with supplementary parts of the compilation. This fic is largely based around what we learn from Crisis Core, the main game, and Advent Children. You could not pay me to complete Dirge of Cerberus and I'm not interested in Before Crisis. All the short stories and novels seem interesting, but as of completion of this little tale I've not read/listened to a single one, sorry.
  * There is a host of other fics written by amazing authors that touch on everything I missed here, I'm sure

**Why exactly did you change the rating**

  * The Memory and The Knight, mostly
  * In general I feel like I touched on subjects that were a bit much for a Teen rating and they kind of added up??? Maybe I overreacted lol

**Why'd you respond to like 99.9% of the comments**

  * Why not
  * I like to talk
  * I'll probably talk to you again if you leave a comment here

**Will you write more for this story?**

  * Hard maybe leaning towards a no. I feel very strongly that I've told the story that needs to be told. If I DO add more, it'll probably be vastly shorter than this!
  * This is not the last thing I'll write for FFVII and for that matter this isn't the first FFVII time travel fic I wrote. The first attempt was literally telenovela crazy and was written in like my last few years of High School. Maybe I'll rewrite that. But either way, you shall see me again—even if the morrow is barren of promises :)

**What was your inspiration for this? **

Last January, I lost my best friend to suicide. She was my biggest cheerleader for almost a decade, and so dear to me that it's not worth trying to express in words. I was already not in a good place, but once I lost her, it's like everything I was struggling with was amplified. I made it through my most recent semesters literally by the skin of my teeth, and doing the things I enjoyed suddenly felt like a chore.

So I was like. I need a hobby! And decided to get back into writing. To make it easier, I thought I'd stick with what I knew and loved, and with all the buzz about the remake, I was settled firmly back into my hype for FFVII. So, number one. Semi-healthy outlet for a rough time. With that said, I just love FFVII. I'm sure this is a common narrative, but it was a bonding point in an admittedly crappy household, so I cherish it. And let me tell you, I read _so_ many time travel fics over the years. I hope this fic is a respectable homage to all the fandom has to offer!

And honestly? There are so many things I believe about like. People and optimism and hope that I feel are a little unrealistic, so it was nice to get it out of my system within a medium where that idealism makes a little more sense. Maybe that's cynical of me to say? But that's where I was coming from!

Please don't worry about me. Things aren't perfect, but I'm seeking help and supports and I hope things will look up soon. If this fic has brought you any joy, if it entertained you, if it's made you think, I'm so glad. Hearing from you folks has really cheered me up. Thanks for stopping by. :)

**Author's Note:**

> update 7th june 2020: 
> 
> hi! if you’re just finishing this up or coming back to it & if the theme of protest and kindness in this fic spoke to you in any way it would mean the world to me if you read through and shared this carrd: https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/
> 
> it is the most comprehensive collection of resources i have found to date re: supporting protestors & the families of those impacted by state sanctioned violence & educating oneself on antiblackness. the creator of the carrd updates these resources regularly. of course, it is still important to do your own research and work, but this is a wealth of knowledge that i hope you’ll take advantage of. stay safe.


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